The first letter arrived folded between the pages of a seventh-year Transfiguration essay.

Minerva nearly missed it.

The parchment was ordinary at first glance. Cream-colored. Elegant handwriting. No signature.

Exactly the sort of thing that should have alarmed her.

Instead, she recognized the script immediately.

Her pulse stumbled.

Carefully, she unfolded the letter. The first message appeared harmless.

A passage discussing moonlit gardens, winter roses, and the tragedy of waiting for spring. It read like poetry. The sort of sentimental nonsense that would have made Minerva roll her eyes under normal circumstances.

Yet she knew better.

Because the witch who wrote it was currently risking execution.

A Death Eater.

A spy.

An Order operative.

A professor inside Hogwarts.

And one of the few remaining agents feeding information to the resistance after Albus's death.

Minerva reached for her wand.

The hidden cipher revealed itself slowly.

The poetry dissolved.

Names appeared.

Dates.

Movements.

Supply transfers.

Arrests.

Planned inspections.

A warning regarding several students.

At the bottom sat a single sentence.

Three days. Move them before then.

Minerva's chest tightened.

Three days.

Enough time to save lives.

Only because someone had chosen to remain in hell long enough to send the warning.

So... The reports keeps coming. No directly... Disguised as love poem. But present.

A letter that would appear, to any observer, to be the private correspondence of a woman hopelessly infatuated.

The irony was almost laughable.

The Death Eaters searched for military intelligence.

Instead, they overlooked poetry.

Minerva hated how clever it was.

She hated even more that she found herself rereading the harmless portions after decoding the messages.

The parts not meant for the Order.

The parts written for her.

The roses are surviving despite the frost.

I saw the stars tonight.

The castle remains beautiful after midnight.

Tiny things.

Meaningless things.

Human things.

Proof that the woman writing them still existed beneath the mask.

Minerva worried. The risks were becoming absurd.

Particularly not someone walking daily among Death Eaters, Carrows, informants, and terrified children.

The castle was silent around her.

Outside, winter winds rattled the windows.

For the first time in weeks she felt the crushing exhaustion pressing against her bones.

Albus was gone.

The Ministry had fallen.

Students were suffering.

Friends were dying.

The future felt smaller every day.

And yet.

Somewhere within Hogwarts itself, a young woman continued walking willingly into danger.

Carrying information.

Protecting students.

Serving the Order.

Pretending loyalty to monsters.

All while sending hope hidden between lines of poetry.

Minerva folded the letter carefully.

Far more carefully than necessary.

A dangerous warmth settled somewhere beneath her ribs.

Her admiration had become concern.

Concern had become attachment.

And attachment, Minerva knew, was perilous.

Because every new message reminded her how much there was to lose.

She rose from her desk and crossed to the window.

The grounds lay beneath moonlight.

Cold.

Silent.

Beautiful.