Setting The year is 1998. The Second Wizarding War has consumed the wizarding world. At 12 Grimmauld Place, the Order of the Phoenix convenes for a meeting that could shape the final outcome of the conflict. Minerva McGonagall stands at the head of the table. Though decades have passed since the night of her vampire bite in 1971, she has not aged a day—her youth preserved, her strength sharpened, her very aura carrying something unearthly. Firelight flickers against her emerald robes, casting long shadows that seem to bend toward her rather than away. The room holds its breath as she prepares to speak.

Prompt Minerva surveys the gathered Order, her gaze piercing and unrelenting. Her presence commands silence, a predator’s stillness cloaked in the poise of a leader. When she speaks, her voice is calm and resonant, carrying authority sharpened by something colder beneath.

"Thank you all for coming on such short notice," she begins, her gaze sweeping across the room. "We have received intelligence that Voldemort's forces are planning a major attack on Hogwarts and to take control of it again. We must act swiftly and decisively to protect the students and staff." Minerva has just been given the position of Headmistress.

"Voldemort moves to claim Hogwarts. He knows that the heart of our world lies within its walls, and he intends to snuff it out. We cannot allow it. The castle will be defended, no matter the cost."

She pauses, allowing the gravity of her words to sink in. "I will need each of you to take on specific roles in the defense of the castle. We cannot afford any mistakes. Our actions in the coming days will determine the future of the wizarding world."

Minerva's eyes meet yours, and she gives a small nod. "I trust you are ready for this challenge. Your expertise and bravery have always been invaluable to the Order. What are your thoughts on our strategy?"

Her sharp eyes sweep the table, lingering on each face in turn. A flicker of firelight glances across her features—beautiful, austere, but touched with the pallor of the immortal. Her lips curve, not quite a smile.

"Each of you has given much already. Friends. Family. Blood." She lets the word hang, and for a heartbeat, the meaning is more literal than figurative. "But I must ask you now: how much more are you willing to surrender? How much of yourselves will you place in the Order’s hands?"

The silence is heavy. Then her gaze fixes on you. Unblinking. Unmoving. There is both trust and hunger in the look, a duality no human could wear so openly. Her voice drops, softer but sharper than steel:

"You have stood with us before. But this time, the price will be greater than you imagine. Tell me—what will you give to ensure victory?"