Hello! I hope you had a nice time waiting! Right, let's begin.

I'd like to thank all of you for reading this story. For more than a year I wrote my AU, while you all read it along, for my joy. I gained so much from doing this — my writing style got much, much... much better than it was with the first chapter of this nonsense. And for this I can only thank you; because of your encouragement, kind words, and silent reading I am still able to produce new chapters.

I am glad for all those silent readers, for talkative ones, for every single one of you. And I will continue to improve and write, because I know that there is someone who is interested my work. THANK YOU!

About this chapter: A new friend for Minerva!(Yay!) And now our hero has to face the reality without her loved one by her side, with memories and scars to prove them. There is a letter, a lot of tears, and flashbacks, too. Also, Minerva will have to fight off a certain curse that shall reign over her.

Enjoy, lovelies!

Disclaimer: I own everything but the plot. Sadly, it's the other way around.

Warning: I changed a few… well, a lot of the events in LotR books and movies.

"Even in the darkness"

Chapter 10

Goodbye

It hurt.

No matter how hard Minerva tried to deny, it did hurt. From the tips of her scarred fingers, to the ripped skin against her abdomen.

But it wasn't emotional pain. There, nothing waved, only calm flow of her mind distracted her further.

As Minerva stood carving the rough skin of an oak, she focused on the movements of her dagger.

"We should carry on until the dawn comes," Aragorn spoke softly.

Engraving the last of lines, Minerva straightened her bearing. With a shaking breath she sheathed her splattered dagger.

She left a mark behind her. The one embroidered in the depths of blackness of her attire. The one lingering as a scar on Peregrin's wrist. The one she would mark her enemy with.

Even if she never came back, it would linger there as a memory of who she once was.

"What's on your mind?" the man asked later, striding beside her across the golden forest of Lothlorien.

Minerva held back a sigh. "Absolutely nothing."

"I see," he trailed courteously. "Perhaps you need a hand with your wound?"

"It shall heal," she answered simply. "Time heals all wounds."

Aragorn snorted lightly. "I assume these words are not of those visible wounds."

"Either way," Minerva waved her hand, "it will heal."

"The dwarf breathes so loud, we could have shot him in the dark," an elf said to Minerva's surprise.

At the tip of his sharp arrow, Gimli grunted under his breath. But the spark of alarm that darkened Aragorn's eyes was long gone.

"Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion," the leader of the elves said in his native speech, greeting the blonde archer of the fellowship.

"Govannas vîn gwennen le, Haldir o Lórien," he answered in the same, only for a few of the group understandable speech.

The elf turned to look at the others, until his eyes met Strider's blue ones. "A, Aragorn in Dúnedain istannen le ammen."

The two bowed at each other courteously. Gimli grumbled angrily in the background.

"So much for the legendary courtesy of the elves! Speak words we can all understand!" he said.

Gimli's criticism was met by Haldir's sharp words, "We have not had dealing with the dwarves since the dark days."

"And you know what this dwarf says to that?" he mocked back. "Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul!"

Minerva rolled her eyes at the sight of Aragorn disciplining Gimli. She only wished to still. And neither they would pass this forest nor drop to rest in tents if they continued with words.

"You bring great evil with you," Haldir said to Frodo. "You can go no further."

That's it.

The witch pushed past Aragorn who gave a weak attempt to stop her. Perhaps he wished the same as she — rest and oblivion.

"Do you know who I am?" she spoke to the blonde elf in a warning. Her words were met by silence. "I am the sixth Istar."

A glimmer of surprise showed in his eyes.

"If Sauron does reward Lothlorien with a visit, direct him to me," Minerva said. "Now let us pass."

"You will follow me."

Minerva gracefully made her way up the crystal staircase, carefully glancing sideways — it was too dim to discern any particular detail of her surroundings. But nothing about this place seemed familiar.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" Boromir said beside her.

She gazed at the elves, settled against the wide tree branches — even too wide to be found in the forbidden forest back home. Lights danced against all that lurked in the shadows; dusted moonlight fell upon the golden ground, shimmering before her emerald eyes.

Silver light touched her own pale face, revealing her changed by time contours, saddened and deserted of feelings. But not only her body did the time change.

"It is," Minerva answered softly.

Last three steps and the pair reached the silver top. The witch chose a place behind the rest, lurking in the depths of shadows. Her eyes rose unnoticeably as she noted the two figures descending down a staircase.

Two elves of high roamed before the fellowship — showered in starlight and silver of the full moon. Their hands were clasped together, bond tighter than her eyes perceived, and they slowly stepped down — time was none of their concern.

The woman appeared young … but old at the same time. Experienced eyes met her own as Minerva traced her ageless features. Golden hair brought out the brightness of her skin that had never been marked, neither with blade nor time.

The male beside her seemed calm, with a bearing of an ancient warrior.

"The enemy knows you have entered her," he said. "What hope you had in secrecy is now gone." His gaze unsettled Aragorn. "Nine there are here, yet ten there were set out from Rivendell."

Minerva's eyes fell.

"Tell me where is Gandalf, for I much desire to speak with him," he continued. "I can no longer see him from afar."

"Gandalf the Grey did not pass the borders of this land. He has fallen into shadow," the female elf whispered in sudden realisation, her voice mingled with sadness.

"He was taken by both shadow and flame," Legolas sliced the silence. "A balrog of Morgoth. For we went needlessly into the net of Moria."

Gimli bowed his head slightly as the woman spoke up once again. "Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life. We do not yet know his full purpose." The dwarf sighed and the elf showered him in kind words. "Do not let the great emptiness of Khazad-dûm fill your heart, Gimli, son of Gloin… For the world has grown full of peril and in all lands love is now mingled with grief."

Her piercing blue eyes turned to Boromir. Fear changed his resting expression, words that belonged to her frightened him beyond anything. His eyes watered and he broke the painful contact.

'It is rather impolite to mess with one's head,' Minerva entered her mind.

The woman before her smiled, gazing into her eyes. 'A child of the Valar,' she replied, 'I see the count of your lives is significantly different from what I have expected.'

'Neither have I.'

Galadriel nodded at her direction unnoticeably.

"What now becomes of this fellowship?" The male elf said seriously. "Without Gandalf, hope is lost."

"The quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail to the ruin of all." The golden-haired woman spoke again. "Yet hope remains while the company is true… Do not let your hearts be troubled. Go now and rest for you are weary with sorrow and much toil… Tonight, you will sleep."

Sooner or later, Minerva dropped on her bedroll with a stifled groan. Never had her joints felt so weary before.

A sigh escaped her as she wrapped herself in a duvet, squeezing her burning eyes shut. A melody — cold, distant, sorrowful, reached her ears before the only thing she could hear was her own heartbeat.

And for the first time in weeks, Minerva fell asleep without him by her side.

Minerva opened her colourless eyes.

In instinct, she shifted to her left, searching for the familiar warmth … but he wasn't there.

And finally, within one glance into the emptiness of the night, Minerva McGonagall felt the world around her crumble into nothing.

It hit her unawares — a crucial blow to her heart; a bolt of lightning against her calm mind; an axe of guilt depriving her of the privilege of drawing breath. A light touch of the briefly forgotten madness coronated it all; hidden vision recurred within her scorching head as if a storm of heat tore every inch of her being.

Gandalf the Grey, supposedly crossed out from her life, rose yet again from within the piles of ashes that her heart was.

Wiping at her teary eyes, Minerva seized herself and flew: without destination and without the usual stealth of her armoured mind. And perhaps for the first time she truly was vulnerable to the monster within her.

Green, golden, silver, obsidian — all flew before her blind to all eyes. All Minerva saw was his eyes, all she heard was his words, and all she felt was the crippling desolation without him.

Minerva asked herself over and over the same question — would it hurt so much if she didn't love him? And as she collapsed on her knees in the crystal blue of the dim lake, she knew that the answer couldn't be anything else but negative.

Her bitters tears dripped down her skin, stinging her fingers that lay against her mouth. With wide eyes she gazed at the never-ending lake as realization chopped her sanity into pieces.

"How could I?" Minerva whispered against her hand.

She shook her dark head in denial, letting her arms be soaked in the chilly water. "I let him die."

Putting thoughts into words seemed to aggravate the reality further.

Her emerald eyes slid across the surface of lake under her. Her face, covered in blood, dirt and dust — unrecognizable when compared to her past self, before wars or within them. Her square glasses, cracked and dusty, wouldn't fit her anymore — they couldn't fit her.

With a firm hand Minerva pulled them away. Scarlet red drops trickled down her trembling fingers, crushing glass within them. And she threw them — as far as her restless body let her.

She kneeled in the water and let it soak through; she let the tempestuous wind stiffen her skin, the starless sky to sting her eyes. For hours Minerva sat in the depths of blue; her tears had long dried off, her emotions long gone from her stone cold face.

Námo was with her. Without a word he swathed her hand. Ever so slowly his own fingers brushed against her cheeks — darkened and pale, too pale even for a being from the sunless Scotland, and they wiped away her sorrow and the blood within her. And just as soon he disappeared, draping a coat of silver over her slumped shoulders.

Staring at the sky, Minerva knew only one certain thing — Gandalf the Grey was gone.

The once colourful person had diminished — all left of her was a dull feather, soaring along the course of the wind. Her eyes had always been lively — now they were but emotionless pits of darkness, blind to all around. Her powers grew thin; an inseparable part of her was gone. Her obsidian hair began greying — lightly, just enough for her to shut down completely.

Emerald eyes trailed along the path of smoke and ash, traveling against the current of wind. Smoking ember glimmered in the darkness of the moonless night, embellishing the colourless grass under. Flames of golden fire danced gracefully in a silent whisper, insensibly casting shadows upon her drained face.

As all around her slouching form wandered in the depths of dreams, Minerva's empty stare slid to the sheet amid her fingers. A letter, found when no one searched for it. Stamped it was with waxen seal of red — untouched by the fingers of strangers, seen by none but her.

A privilege it'd be if not the mark engraved on it.

Minerva's hands trembled slightly — was it anticipation or dread she couldn't tell. Her eyes closed; she could already feel the familiar stinging in their corners.

She tried to prepare herself, staring at the markings across the envelope. She didn't want to open it. She didn't want to see his words. But as she sat with her knees hovering before her eyes, she knew she had to.

Eventually, her fingers broke the waxen seal.

There were more than enough sheets of paper inside — words scribbled, crossed out, written with different shades of ink. Stains of vine and black flourish spattered on the surface betrayed how long it had been worked on. And how difficult it had been to write.

And finally, her emerald eyes slid against the first words.

My dear Minerva,

The only reason why you have this unfortunate privilege to read my words is because I met my lamentable fate.

Minerva sighed as she felt a bitter taste form in the back of her nagging throat. Why couldn't he die in silence?

I have so much of what I have to speak, but words, the one thing I am great at finding, that would be worth scribbling on paper, came to me but after a fortnight of restless nights. And although these spent moments were by your side, I only felt guilt for having to write a letter to clarify my actions. And perhaps after you read this, I shall be fortunate enough to receive your understanding.

A muted snort escaped her as her emerald eyes ran through his last sentence. He certainly deserved his title of a fool if he thought he could patch it all with a single letter.

Firstly, I'd like you to acknowledge a memory of mine. It is from the time when I could roam the distant lands of pure green — where Gods cross paths with all that is sacred, where blood has never been spilled, and where stars bring light brighter than hope. I remember but one image from my past life — a pair of eyes. They were welcoming, warm, and ever so piercing. This memory is the reason why I wandered across Middle-Earth restlessly — I had to find the owner of my heart. And this obscure feeling favoured me with hope which I could share with all pure of evil.

For the rest of my years I eased my mind of counting days that passed. I only searched for something to fill the endless void within my soul. Naturally, I fell in love — over and over again, but never was it of kind that could make me whole again. I dreamt of the countless tales I would tell them — of mountains golden, of dragons burning, of talking trees and wind … of hobbits, even. And when my search at last was over, I found you. It was you, Minerva, who was my hope and courage, my rope and the knife that cuts it, my stars and my moon. And that memory of your emerald eyes is the one and only proof I was ever in need of to know that my love for you is endless and unbreakable. That is why I fell for you blindly and without my usual wisdom intervening.

Minerva cursed in her mind as she felt her eyes grow blind to his words, her vision but a mist of tears.

I swear to Nienna, dear, this was not meant to be a letter of my love confessions, but if you are still running through my words, I'd like you to know that I love you. I fell for you slowly — and then all at once. Why? I would never be able to complete the list, even with my immortality. But with your first attempt to murder me, I discovered your boundless bravery and boldness. I adore your unpredictable temper — the main cause of my sleepless hours by your side. A rather likely culprit of your own ending: your stubbornness and the Scottish pride. And even if it pains me to admit, I love your self-sacrificing nature. But I also fell for your hardest to come upon side — tender, never lacking in loyalty, passion and forgiveness. And I could never forget the power you hold within you — I got a taste of it myself. And to me, my love, you are more than your godly name.

This letter was supposed to be the one to express my farewell. And I will tell you my final words. For your own sake perceive, Minerva, that the only thing defying you is your actions. Never prophecies are fulfilled the way they were told — it is how well you can strategize your fate. Predictions are not and never shall be a guide of life, nor will they all come to face truth. Perhaps evil of this world shall fall without your hand intervening. Bear one thing — never lose faith in your companions; Frodo shall fulfil his own destiny. I advise you to consider the possibility I could never even think of — forgive. Excuse all those whose mistakes are foolish enough to be justified. Remember one last advice of mine — do not give into the dark side. Voldemort's spell is nothing compared to you, Minerva, and never shall it reign above your mind. I believe in your strength to resist.

Minerva straightened her bearing and reviewed the last sentence, underlined with a firm hand.

My last wish is for you to grieve not, nor to feel guilt for what I will do to myself. It is only my fault for leaving you before I could tell you of my endless journeys, before you could hear of my love for you enough times. It is my choice — for the future of the fellowship, for the future of this world. I apologize and wish you all well.

Forever yours,

Gandalf the Grey

With her infamous empty gaze, Minerva continued to trail the rising path of smoke above. Her trembling fingers carefully wiped at the corners of her aching eyes as she watched the fire calmly swallow the porcelain paper.

Sheet after sheet she threw into the roaring flame, with blank stare following how white turned to ashes. Bitter smoke gnawed her drained eyes, heat licked her numb skin, his words turned into nothing. His lies turned into nothing.

"Idiot," Minerva spat, covering her eyes in despair. "Idiot with a golden tongue."

Minerva straightened her bearing slightly as her eyes met a pair of blue ones in a battle against all odds.

"You inquired for me?" she asked, never losing her toneless note.

Galadriel flashed her a brilliant smile, one she would never lose from her memory. "Indeed I have, Validhreniel."

"It's Minerva, actually," she corrected. "It's rather late for a meeting, wouldn't you agree?"

"Whereas your nights have been sleepless of late."

Minerva frowned lightly but held herself from giving an answer.

"Let us make ourselves comfortable then, shall we?"

The witch felt her eyebrows rise as Galadriel spread her arm out for her to take. Minerva traced her skin visibly — untouched by the long hands of harm, bared to the soft light of the sun, but flawless nevertheless. The woman before her smiled at her apparent wandering gaze. Her blue eyes felt dreamy and soothing in the moonlight as she followed her every movement. Charmed by her godly aura, Minerva let her fingers touch hers.

She was seated across the elven highness — by a table of whitened wood. But a moment ago her delicate fingers had brushed against the azure markings, adoring her porcelain skin, and a strange wave of tranquility washed over her. Her sapphire irises held the witch rooted to a spot, but Minerva couldn't claim that the hypnotizing eye-contact was particularly unpleasant.

"Tea, perhaps?" Galadriel suggested gently.

"Vine, preferably."

Minerva was wary of the sight of the Lady of Light pouring crimson into a glass — slowly, deliberately dragging their encounter into the dawn. Briefly, she was struck by the unearthly shimmer in her eyes, so much so she missed the kind tone of her inquiring voice.

The witch flinched in response as Galadriel's elegant hand came to rest upon her frozen skin.

"Let me into your mind, Minerva," she murmured tenderly.

Emerald eyes closed fleetingly and she dared to answer in return, "A mind of a stranger might not be the finest place to wander. Especially for a second time."

"You jest, yet your mind is going astray."

By the time Minerva regained her vision, Galadriel had diminished into air. And so had all within her.

There she sat the next moment— as the strict teacher of transfiguration, marking a pile of familiar essays. The obsidian quill between her fingers swiftly crossed words of non-sense; these were the works of third-years, certainly. And this one belonged to Ron Weasley himself.

The scenery changed: a night of full moon, she ran on the spring time grounds of Hogwarts. A bright light of red filled Minerva's vision, and the memory changed. Even after all these years she could still feel the same burning sensation in her chest.

A pair of grey eyes flew across — belonged they to Saruman the White. And the one whom he left scars on was Gandalf the Grey. Traitor.

Rain. Warmth. A memory Minerva would always carry in her scarred heart — a memory of his lips, of his hands, of his crystal grey eyes.

Once again she lived through the slaughter that had carved a sign onto her. There was Elrond, Námo, Aragorn, Boromir, Frodo — they all were but flashes of her memoir.

Past.

Minerva let Galadriel continue her delving through her mind. The elven highness rummaged through her past in heist, searching, never dwelling onto a single image.

Until she paused.

She decided upon the memory not long ago created: the last morning before their unwished depart from Imladris. Right after Minerva lastly parted with the softness of his bed sheets.

Leaves and the early frost of the morning crunched under her feet, grass bent, earth slumped against her light steps. She strode quietly through the luminous fog, her emerald eyes ever so attentively glancing around.

Her steps ceased as Minerva reached the only marked pine in the whole limitless wood. A crimson strip of silk — a reminder, a sign of a resting place. A resting place of piles of ashes.

Gandalf had mentioned her how they cremated the bodies of the eight of her enemies. Or what was left of them.

Within her lightly trembling fingers, she held a handful of golden seeds. Kneeling, Minerva slowly spilled them on by one; the crumbling soil hid them within a touch of her hand. She planted flowers as a memory. As an apology.

"It is impolite to stare," she said with a light tug at the corners of her mouth. "From behind, especially."

A final touch of her hand evened out the friable ground — it could bloom one day.

"I wouldn't call it staring," the man answered. "I was merely observing."

Brushing her palms clean, Minerva rose to her feet with a turn. Gandalf smiled at her fondly, his sapphire eyes ever flaming under his ashen eyebrows.

"I'm glad you're here with me," she spoke softly.

Within a step he cradled her hands in his. "I'm with you until the very end, Minerva."

When Gandalf gathered her in his arms, and she clung to him in despair, she muttered quietly against his shoulder, "If I never come back to Rivendell—"

"—you will."

"But if I don't…" She pulled back slightly to meet his hesitating gaze. "I want you to visit this place."

With a sigh, he tipped his head in defeat. "And if I never come back," he murmured. "I want you to return this."

The red strip of silk is what he showed her. The mark, the reminder.

"Have it with you," Gandalf said, gently taking a hold of her arm.

She held her breath as his fingers trailed up her bare skin — warm, soothing, trembling. He let the fabric glide against her upper arm, tenderly wrapping it in the cool to touch, slippery material.

"Return it," he whispered, securing the silk blindly.

And with a single kiss, he took away her breath.

Minerva lowered her glass steadily, gazing through the crimson liquid. She followed Galadriel's sparkling eyes, swallowing against the drumming in her throat.

"Neither of us will come back," Minerva stated with a familiar blankness in her voice. She rose to her feet as the fabric around her arm shimmered into visibility promptly. "So why bother?"

She let it fall on the table. Without another word, Minerva left Galadriel to sit and gaze at the crimson material.

And for the first time in a fortnight Minerva could rest — the darkness of Voldemort's curse finally found a crack within her.

"Do not be afraid, Minerva," Galadriel coaxed gently.

Her raven strands of hair fell upon her face as Minerva shook her head plainly in answer.

"You dread," she murmured. "You dread of what you have given into."

The smoothness of her fingers still lingered upon her marked skin — serene, frosty, as gentle as a mid-summer breeze. And they were entwined in the heap of Minerva's obsidian hair; as the mild wind above them stirred golden branches, Galadriel tenderly brushed against her skin, braiding the growing silver locks.

"I know of your suffering," the elf lady said. "But never it is a reason to give in for a temporary relief."

Minerva grasped her moving hands — still they lay against her neck. Fingertips rested under the veil of raven as the witch sighed longingly into the night.

"You don't know how it feels," she said — her first words since sunset. "It has never happened to you."

"Indeed," Galadriel whispered behind her, her hands trailing back into Minerva's hair. "Perhaps you could introduce me to the nature of your ache."

"I let it manipulate me so I wouldn't feel," the witch replied in thought. The pure blades of grass shifted against her palms, her eyes closed in silence. "Wouldn't endure the pain that was given to me… not only the hidden one, the heartache, — but the physical one moreover. I only wish … That I could— I could…"

Her words hung between them as a severe trouble within her mind and tongue. Minerva felt her throat grow dry as she trailed softly — dry as the ash of her burning soul.

"Bring him back…" Galadriel pondered.

"Forget him."

"He is yet immensely dear to your heart — you love him. You shan't forget of him."

"I should," Minerva grunted under her breath. "Torment and scars is what he left. That isn't love."

Galadriel shook her golden head sadly. "Trust in time to heal your wounds."

"I'd rather trust a curse."

Her delicate palms lay upon Minerva's stiff shoulders, gently kneading through the tension within her muscles. "The spell upon you shall leave damage behind."

"None of you have noticed, but I have forevermore been damaged."

Her obsidian eyes fluttered open as inquisitive fingers travelled to linger against the emerald clasp of her cloak.

"If you seek oblivion, I may relieve you of your physical ache," Galadriel murmured lightly. "Perhaps a temporary freedom of all is not what you need, but my hands would suit you exceptionally greater than the all shading curse."

Minerva closed her colourless eyes in answer to her words — her senses merely focused upon the tingling sensation of her raven hair being shifted across her shoulder. Fabric against fabric slid as the clasp gave in under elf's fleeting touch, gentle and yet demanding.

"Resist the temptation, Minerva." Her words stung her sensitive hearing as a shiver ran down her constrained, stiff spine. "Let go of it."

She did.

And the pain within her came crashing down — her tensed shoulders slumped, head bowed in defeat, eyes closed, emerald anew.

But Minerva could feel her contact — quenching the flame that licked the only scar upon her weary frame. The mark on skin that shielded her spine still shattered, where Elrond had dared to let an arrow rest, where she would be forever signed.

Minerva let a single sound escape past her thinly pressed lips; Galadriel's fingertips ran down her curved spine for a shortest of moments as she sighed into the moonless night. Thrilling — that's what it all was, what Galadriel's whole persona was, how Minerva felt as her head insensibly leaned back, as she found herself staring at the sky of nothing but stars.

Thrilling.

The lady of light worked on the tunic, fastened with obsidian plates of copper, and as one by one they were undone, Minerva could only lean back further into Galadriel's gentle touch.

"Does every guest has a privilege of this sort?"

A light hum sprang through Minerva's own body as the woman behind her laughed — as bells of gold it rang in her ears, sweet and tempting. Her voice was gone the moment the material of her colourless tunic glided down from her porcelain shoulders; nothing was forbidden to Galadriel — neither the web of her mind nor the form of her scars.

'Give up what could easily corrupt you,' the woman entered Minerva's mind. 'And I shall heal your wounds.'

Her fingertips ran against her bare back as the gentle hum of wind blew at the two figures who remained unseen from the all-consuming eyes of gods and sacred evil.

Galadriel's gentle touch revived her soul, cured the ache of her wounds, and thus, Minerva could at last let herself feel safe — only if for a single night, even if she would never feel anything like the spell of the person behind her, Minerva felt secure.

"Do you not trust me, Minerva?" Galadriel asked. "Even after all of our nightly gatherings?"

"I wouldn't call them that," the witch said with an invisible smile.

"The mirror is yours to gaze." Her hand gripped Minerva's shoulder a bit tighter. "It is only a choice you can make."

As her golden-haired head nodded at her lightly, the shade of her emerald eyes adjusted, a spark of curiousity was ignited.

"Do not fiddle with my trust," Minerva spoke, before Galadriel moved aside. "I come to a conclusion that another betrayal would be the end of me."

"Oh, never would I mislead you, dear."

Within a step, her vision was filled with the same dimness of the forest, lurking above. When the image changed and galaxies flew within a second, Minerva lightly gripped the edge of the silver mirror.

Saruman's eyes appeared, blind to all and empty, staring at her from under a veil of crimson across his skin. Lifeless he was, snow-white robes torn by a silver blade of a sword, lay he on the wilted grass that the battle-ground was. And Minerva's crystal tears washed his illuminated form, her cloak of fiery red shielding them both from the raging battle, from the darkness of Mordor ahead.

A glass, filled with nothing but gold — the curse of her, the fall of the fearless Minerva McGonagall. Crystal she held in her hand, strands of raven cascading down her shoulders, garbed in fur of white. Her eyes — two coals, proving Minerva's inability to resist Voldemort's curse, inability to cope with it all.

The vision after seized Minerva by her throat, her breath and words were gone — it took her by pure bewilderment.

Her hair, sliced not to even reach her shoulders, sprawled on a metal frame, white as snowflakes, contrasting with the rust of the bed of torture. Arms shackled, legs restrained — eyes white, frozen, insane. Blood splashed across her porcelain face, scalpel sliced her bruised skin. Light blinded her vision, the bright figure above her, washed in her own blood, hovered mysteriously, drawing out a laugh at her lifeless expression.

'Silence shall only make it worse, Validhreniel.' His voice rang in her ears — familiar, yet distant.

The scenery changed — Minerva found herself trembling involuntarily.

She now gazed at herself, standing in a field of raging battle. White hair billowing in the wind, torn cloak of crimson hanging from her shoulders. A metal hand held the ring of power within its grasp — Minerva had conquered them all. She had lost her arm, but she defeated evil, crushed its roots to nothing.

Námo. The lord of death held her in his arms, her own limbs dangling above ground as he carried her away from dust and smoke. With closed eyes she lay still, a crown of flowers upon her snowy head, a tie of crimson around her arm, an incomplete list of death upon her skin.

Never again would she open her colourless eyes.

A white wolf between trees of forest flashed before her, then the final vision washed it all away.

Fire, flaming high above, clouds of ashes rising into the dim sky. Flashes of green crossed the air, bodies lay forgotten across the battlefield. Hogwarts burned in agony, a sign of death above their heads, laughing at the lost innocence. Screams, blood, and laughter. The last thing she gazed at was the Dark Lord himself — sat he upon a throne, smiling at her horrified expression.

'Give in, Minerva. It's all over.'

The silver water cleared. Minerva straightened herself slowly, and sighed. As Galadriel's arms wrapped around her gently, she let herself have a moment of weakness.

A.N.: So, what do you think about the new relationship? The letter? Or the visions of the mirror?

P.S. If you have any questions or suggestions, tell me.

See you soon, my dear readers!