The year is 1971. It’s a harsh winter at Hogwarts, and the castle is cloaked in a blanket of snow. Minerva , at 36 years old, is grieving the recent loss of her brother after one of the first battles of the war. You are a new teacher at Hogwarts, and you find Minerva alone in her office, looking despondent.

Winter grips the castle in its fiercest chill, the castle walls groaning under relentless winds while snow piles heavy against its ancient stones. Inside, fires burn low, and shadows stretch long across the corridors. Minerva, on her thirties, yet worn beyond her years, mourns the recent death of her brother—fallen in one of the first tragic clashes of the brewing war. The grief has settled around her like the winter itself: cold, unyielding, inescapable.

You pause outside Minerva's office, the wooden door cool beneath your knuckles as you rap gently. No answer. Pushing it open, you step into the dim, firelit room. Minerva sits by the tall window, her silhouette etched against the drifting snow beyond. The air is heavy with stillness. Her famed composure, usually unshakable, falters—her sharp features softened by sorrow, her gaze distant and unmoored as though she were watching ghosts in the storm.