It was three years in before the war became really personal. Minerva would never forget the day. She was coming down to dinner from her room, and Malcolm came walking toward her in the empty hallway. She froze immediately and her heart stopped. He wouldn't have been here unless something major had happened.
"Robert Jr. died," he said so softly she almost didn't hear him.
"No," she said. Her voice echoed off the stone walls.
"He was called to the field as a substitute to explain away the magic caused by Voldemort's minions, and the cowards were still there, hiding, and they killed him with the killing curse."
"No," she repeated, this time her voice strangled with sorrow. Her denial didn't change anything. It wouldn't take bring her brother back or erase what she'd just heard, but she said it again. "No."
He hugged her. They never hugged and that brought the reality of what had happened home. It was like a bad dream, but it wasn't a dream.
Dumbledore took over her classes, so she could attend the funeral. He had found a teacher for Defense against the Dark Arts, so it wasn't too much of an extra burden for him. In fact, he found one every year, but ever since Voldemort's curse, they only stayed a year tops. She had lesson plans for the next three months, but knowing Dumbledore, he would likely teach his own lessons anyway. At any rate, she didn't have to worry about her students.
Her father conducted the funeral in their small parish church. She didn't know how he had the strength to stand up there and not break down over the fact that his youngest child rested in the casket.
"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away," he said, his voice booming with a strength that couldn't have come from himself. "Blessed be the name of the Lord."
Minerva said amen along with the rest of the congregation. Her mother beside her couldn't say a word for the tears and silent sobs that wracked her body.
She looked to her other side where her widowed sister-in-law sat, hugging her children close as she cried. Little Gawain was only two, and Zoe, who hadn't even learned to sit up yet, was even younger. Neither would have memories to cherish of their father. She would tell them every story she knew as they grew and make him as real to them as she could, but they'd been robbed more than anyone here.
Time dragged because of the misery of the proceedings, and yet it went by too quickly. She wasn't ready to lay her brother down in his body's final resting place. It was like some sort of time paradox.
She knew where there was a Time-Turner. She could use it to go back and make it so that he never died, but she knew better than to play God. She wouldn't even go back to kill Voldemort. One only had to look at Eloise Mintumble to know why you didn't play with time though it could perhaps be used for something minor and cause no harm if the witch or wizard were competent. But God help her, she wished she could use it for this, to protect her little brother one last time.
At the gravesite, she concentrated on the single red rose she'd been given to place on the casket rather than fall apart as she would if she concentrated on her grieving family. She listened as one of the church ladies beautifully sang a old hymn.
"Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.
Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;
Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see;
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.
I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death's sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if Thou abide with me."
Though she was Muggle, it was like the singer knew all that was happening, but she didn't. She couldn't have chosen a more apt hymn if she did.
Minerva was the last one to drop the rose. She stood there looking down at the deep black hole and wooden coffin for the longest time with dry eyes. She finally felt her father's hand on her shoulder. "You don't always have to be the strong one. It's okay to cry."
Even as her eyes began to sting with unshed tears, she retorted. "You're one to talk."
"I suppose we are too much alike. We forget that sometimes tears are a sign of strength. Jesus wept is the shortest but one of the most powerful verses in the Bible." Her father sounded old for the first time in memory.
A hard lesson but she finally gave herself the freedom to weep. "If I ever find out who they were, I'm not sure they'll make it to Azkaban in one piece." She might even be tempted to use the killing curse herself, but she knew it was the anger talking.
"Vengance is mine, saith the Lord."
He was right. She didn't know how, and she didn't know when, but Voldemort and his followers would fall, and she hoped she was there to see it. She let go of the rose and watched it drop. She could taste the tears that were now running down her face. She refused to say goodbye. "See you later, Robert Jr."
