Chapter Text
The stone walls of the Headmaster’s office seemed to sweat in the stifling silence of the morning. It had been twenty-four hours since the world tilted on its axis, and the air still carried the faint, metallic tang of the Dark Mark that had burned over the Astronomy Tower. Dust motes danced in the shafts of dawn light, oblivious to the fact that the man who had occupied the Great Chair for decades was never coming back.
Minerva McGonagall sat stiffly behind the desk, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were as white as the parchment scattered before her. Her eyes, usually sharp and piercing, were rimmed with a weary, hollow red. Across from her, the others stood or sat in various states of ruin. Moody was leaning heavily on his staff, his magical eye whirring with a frantic, rhythmic ticking sound that was the only noise in the room.
Minerva swallowed hard, the sound audible in the stillness. She looked up at the scarred veteran. "You have to send her a patronus, Alastor."
Moody grunted, his real eye narrowing while the magical one slowed its spinning. "I suppose you're right. Not sure where the lass is though. If she'll even come."
"She'll come," Arthur Weasley said softly. He was slumped in a chintz chair, his robes rumpled, looking every bit a man who had spent the night counting his children to make sure they were all still breathing. He let out a long, shuddering sigh. "Their relationship was strained, we all know that. But he was still her grandfather. She loved him, in her own way."
"She loved him, but she didn't trust him," Kingsley Shacklebolt countered. He remained standing, his arms folded over his deep purple robes, looking like a monolith of caution. He frowned, his voice echoing with a low, resonant gravity. "She never agreed with his ideations with Harry Potter. She refused to join the Order for that very reason. If we invite her back now, we're inviting chaos. If Harry meets her, and let's be clear, now that Albus is gone, she will make it her priority to see the boy, Harry will be confused. His view of Albus, of the Order, may shift when he hears her side of it."
"That doesn't mean she doesn't deserve to know, Kingsley," Tonks argued. She was leaning against a bookshelf, her hair a dull, lifeless mousy brown that hadn't changed since the battle. Her voice was uncharacteristically sharp.
Kingsley shot her a look, his expression unyielding. "Your view of her is skewed, Nymphadora."
Tonks’s jaw set, and her brow furrowed in a deep scowl. "It’s not skewed to think a woman should be told her only living relative was murdered in his own school."
"She'll ask where Severus is," Minerva said suddenly. The name seemed to physically hurt her; her voice wavered, and she reached out to steady a spinning silver instrument on the desk. She sighed, a sound of profound grief. "I don't understand how Severus could have done it. Not after everything. Not when he claimed to love her so deeply."
From the shadows near the Pensieve, Remus Lupin let out a short, dry scoff. It was a cold sound, devoid of his usual warmth. "Severus didn't love her, Minerva. He was obsessed with her."
Minerva looked up, startled by the bitterness in his tone. Remus stepped forward, the light catching the new scars on his face.
"They had that fight years ago," Remus continued, his voice tight. "The one that almost leveled half of Hogsmeade. It happened the night she told him she’d never be what he wanted, that she didn't love him the same way. He didn't take it with grace. He took it as a personal insult to his soul."
Minerva stared at him, her lips trembling. "Are you insisting Severus killed Albus for what? Being jilted? Slighted for his unrequited love? You think he betrayed us all because of a broken heart?"
Remus hesitated. He looked at the empty portrait frame behind the desk where Albus usually sat, then back at Minerva. The anger seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a haunting exhaustion. "No," he said quietly. "But I think when she rejected him, he stopped trying to be the man Albus wanted him to be. I think he decided that if he couldn't have the light she walked in, he might as well belong to the darkness entirely."
Moody didn't wait for further debate. He raised his wand, and a silver light began to coalesce at the tip, illuminating the grim faces of the last people left to hold the line.