The year was 1971. The first ripples of war had already broken across the wizarding world—quiet skirmishes, sudden disappearances, and the grim news of lives cut short. Even within the fortress of Hogwarts, whispers of fear wound their way through the halls, carried by owls and broken letters sealed with black wax.

Minerva stood by the tall window of her office, her back straight though her shoulders carried the invisible weight of grief. At thirty-six, she was young by a professor’s standard, yet her eyes—sharp hazel beneath the glint of her square spectacles—bore the weariness of someone who had already given more than most. The loss of her brother lingered like a shadow that refused to lift, though she wore her sorrow as she wore her robes: neatly, with precision, and without indulgence.

The knock at her door was soft, deliberate. When it opened, it revealed not a student in need, but a fellow professor—one who had quietly aligned themselves with the same cause she had, the Order forming in secret beyond these walls. Their presence shifted the silence in the room, carrying with it the understanding of someone who knew both the burdens of duty and the cost of loyalty.

Minerva did not speak at once. Instead, she turned from the window, the firelight catching the delicate lines of fatigue at her face, softening the stern set of her mouth. She gestured toward the chair opposite her desk, her voice low but steady.

"You’ll forgive the hour," she said, "but I find sleep comes less easily these days. The war has a way of reaching even here."