Minerva McGonagall sat in front of the graves, not quite being able to breathe. Clutched in her hands was a picture, a picture that held so many memories. She glanced down at said picture, feeling the tears well up just by seeing the happy smiling faces. Minerva could still remember the day it was taken. A day when nobody had even imagined what would happen in the future. In what had seemed like the far off, distance future. All these lives, cut short. This was her favourite picture - not the pictures of the "Golden Trio" after finally defeating Voldemort, not the pictures that had been taken every year with Gryffindor, not the pictures she had taken with her long lost love, not the pictures of her with her friends, not the pictures taken with her family and not the pictures taken with her fellow professors at Hogwarts. It was this one. The one of the Order of the Phoenix when they had hope and life. When there had been only friends, no traitors.
Albus Dumbledore stood in the middle, eyes twinkling. Even in this picture, you could still see the secrets he had held, the piercing blue of his eyes gazing into your soul and seeing the secrets there. His long white beard and hair touched the band at his waist, his starry blue robes grazing the floor. Dumbledore's style had always been slightly odd but the day this photo had been taken he'd decided to pull out all the stops. Never again would she see Albus pull out all the stops. All she would see now was a portrait on the wall in her office - the Headmistress's office - and the white tomb that held his cold body. Minerva had seen the body - twisted and disfigured. The crash from the fall from the Astronomy Tower had bent his legs oddly and smashed a hole in his skull so Minerva couldn't help but be thankful that he had already died. In some ways, the Killing Curse had saved him from a worse fate. In some ways.
Minerva herself stood to his right, a rare smile on her face. Like always, her glasses were perched on the edge of her nose and her grey hair pulled up into a bun at the top of her head. Her robes were the tartan red that had always been her favourite - a tartan red that had been destroyed during the Battle of Hogwarts.
A lot of things had been destroyed during the Battle of Hogwarts - so many children's innocence and youth. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley's faces came to mind. Harry had always been scarred, thanks to Voldemort and Dumbedore's not so wise decision to place him in the care of his Muggle relatives but now, now, there wasn't even a shred of childish joy on his face. There was joy, but not the free glee that children often felt. Minerva felt a hatred overwhelm her - how dare the "Dark Lord" rip happiness from these children. These children who had faced war far too early. She glanced down at the picture… and suffered far too early.
On Dumbledore's other side was Rubeus Hagrid. His large form dominated the picture, the beard shorter than it was now and there were no greying parts. Attached to his belt was the chain of keys that he carried everywhere, though a few extra now adorned the ring. Still, Hagrid was the gamekeeper at Hogwarts and Minerva would never let him leave that position. He belonged at Hogwarts.
Minerva felt a lump rise in her throat as she surveyed the others in the picture. James and Lily Potter (nee Evans) were laughing, holding each other tightly. Like always, James had a hand running through his stray curls, glasses slipping down his nose. Lily's bright red curls were obvious even though the picture was faded and her almond shaped emerald eyes looked over at the camera as she laughed. Harry's eyes would forever remind Minerva of this picture, of his mother, - his bright, shining, green eyes. Luckily, Harry had not yet developed James's habit of running his hand through his hair. A relief, for Minerva could only deal with so much likeness. James and Lily were dead too, had been dead the longest though they were among the youngest. Lives that had been cut short and would forever haunt Minerva. How many more lives had been added to her mental list of sorrows.
Sirius Black stood next to the Potters, his dark hair falling to his shoulders. A silver stud glittered in his ear and his tattoos crept up his neck. He was saying something - Minerva couldn't quite remember what - and he was clearly the reason James and Lily were laughing. After he had returned from Azkaban, Sirius had never been the same, his smirk vanished into dust and his jokes sour and often unkind. He had died at the hands of his cousin and Minerva had cried when she'd heard. He had not deserved such a fate, especially after being considered a traitor to his best friends. A traitor thrown away as a mad man and returned hardly as a man at all.
There was a traitor, a hand on Sirus's shoulder. Peter Pettigrew, the quietest one, the one that laughed along and was invited in by everyone. The last one anyone suspected to be traitorous. He was small next to Sirius but seemed to be equal, chuckling along with everyone else. When, Minerva wondered, had he decided to betray his best friends, to spill all their precious secrets to a man that offered him nothing that any man should want. Yet, she was still sad. Sad for the young Gryffindor she had seen, the boy she had seen grow up under the wing of James and Sirius. Perhaps that is what had been offered, a chance to fly free. She couldn't help but scoff - fly free under Voldemort, unlikely. Minerva wondered if he regretted it: regretted throwing away the only family he'd ever had. That scared little boy who had grown to be a brave man and then fallen… fallen into the trap that the Dark Lord had laid right in front of him.
Remus Lupin was next to Minerva, looking round Albus, herself and Hagrid to his friends. Scars marked his face from his full moon nights but the fact that he was a werewolf had never even been considered as a reason to push him aside and ignore him. He was one of them, a friend, a dear friend. When Remus had married Nymphadora Tonks, Minerva couldn't have been happier. Out of everyone, he deserved a happy ending and with a little boy - Teddy - it seemed that he had finally got it. Now, Teddy was left an orphan and Remus too had died by the hands of Voldemort's Death Eaters alongside Tonks. It seemed that none of the Marauders would have the happy ending they'd earned. Minerva could imagine that happy ending in her mind's eye and every time she did, she couldn't help but smile. Wherever they were, she fervently hoped that they were living that happily ever after out.
Some, however, would say that Frank and Alice Longbottom have the worst fate. Minerva couldn't visit them in St Mungos, couldn't stand to see the look on their faces. The mindless smiles. Tortured to insanity, Alice and Frank could no longer even recognise their own child. There they both were, next to Remus, thinking, understanding. They too were laughing, Alice half collapsed against her husband. Her brown hair was cropped to a pixie cut framing her baby face, Frank's strong face a stark contrast. These two lives had been cut short in a crueller way - a way that tortured their son as well as them. Neville hadn't got the chance to have his revenge against Bellatrix Lestrange and Minerva was glad. She couldn't even imagine what he would have done because if Minerva herself found herself wanting to torture Bellatrix into insanity as payback then Alice and Frank's son… what he would have imagined would be so much worse. Perhaps, though, Bellatrix deserved it… perhaps they should have given Neville free rein.
Feeling the tears slip down her weathered cheeks, Minerva looked up from the photo. Flowers were laid by the graves, many many flowers. Minerva herself had added flowers to each headstone. If she turned round, there were more graves, graves from those who had died during the Second Wizarding War. More lives cut short. A few names came to the forefront of her mind: Colin Creevey, Fred Weasley, Lavender Brown (after a long fight in St Mungos), Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, Cedric Diggory, Charity Burbage, Rufus Scrimegeour, Ted Tonks, Severus Snape and Dobby, though his grave was elsewhere. Minerva couldn't bear these graves of the victims of the First Wizarding War, let alone the ones behind her from the Second. Why would any man find delight in seeing those graves? Why would any man be so twisted inside than to think that those graves were good things?
Her heart clenched as she read the Potter's gravestone: "The Last Enemy That Shall Be Destroyed Is Death." Minerva hoped fervently that they had all met in the Afterlife and that one day she would join them. She hoped that she would be able to hear them all laugh again… and be able to laugh herself again…
I know, I know, it's super short. But this makes me cry when I read it and I'm the one who wrote it! Anyway, hope you enjoyed it/cried at it and please review! I love McGonagall - she's incredible - but how she goes around after seeing so many deaths is beyond me. I also know that all the graves aren't in the same place but it worked for this story so it's slightly adapted. :)