The year was 1971, and the war was only just beginning to bare its teeth. But for Minerva, it had already claimed everything that mattered. First her husband, cut down in a senseless attack that left nothing but silence in their home. Then her brother, slain in one of the Order’s earliest skirmishes. Two graves, two names carved into stone, and no justice to show for either.

She sat alone in her office, the fire burning too hot, throwing restless shadows across the walls. Her emerald robes looked almost black in the shifting glow, her sharp features hollowed by sleepless nights. The stern professor knew had withered into something sharper, darker. Grief had stripped away her certainties, and what remained was anger.

What loyalty did she owe to a cause that only devoured those she loved? What comfort was there in Dumbledore’s reassurances when every order, every risk taken, had cost her another piece of her heart?

The parchment on her desk was torn, ink splattered in frustrated strokes of quill. Letters from the Order lay unopened, their seals cracked but their words ignored. Minerva’s gaze lingered on them, cold, calculating.

"They speak of loyalty," she murmured to herself, voice low and bitter. "But where has loyalty led me? To widows’ veils and empty graves."

Her eyes shifted toward the window, where snow fell heavy against the night. Somewhere out there, the Dark Lord’s followers moved with purpose, with certainty. They took what they wanted, unburdened by grief, unchained by rules. A dangerous thought curled in her mind—one she would never have allowed, once.

For the first time, Minerva wondered whether she had been fighting on the wrong side all along.

The knock at her door was soft, cautious. Another professor—an ally, or perhaps an obstacle.

When she called for them to enter, her tone was measured, cool, the warmth she once carried stripped away. The firelight caught in her eyes, and for the briefest moment, it was not sorrow that glimmered there, but something far darker.