After the Battle
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Minerva McGonagall liked to think that she had reached a number of years (and maturity with them) that gave her a certain amount of steadiness of character. She had taught a variety of students of a variety of ages and skill levels. She had witnessed a few truly impressive (if only for the convolutions of the missteps required to bring them about) accidents of transfiguration that were mind boggling to attempt to unravel. She could correct the most basic of errors in her classroom with a practiced flick of her wand and no thought required. She had been head of house to a couple of generations of students and dealt first hand with all the trauma that was sometimes attendant therein (adolescence was a minefield). Her colleagues called her unflappable. She had a reputation for level headed crisis management that had (once upon a time) earned her the position of Deputy Headmistress (which while technically an honor really just meant an additional paperwork burden and being the first to be applied to when something that required correction but not medical intervention from Poppy arose - which happened fairly often in the setting of a magical boarding school). The point was that she had handled whatever the situation at the moment had been well for many years.
[more]
She was the member of the staff most often sent to introduce muggleborns to the truth of what it was that had often plagued their families with wonderings and dread that they held back and declined to voice. She had once had a particularly ill-tempered Yorkshire terrier attach itself to her leg with its teeth while she was delivering a Hogwarts' letter.
She had calmly removed the creature and continued her presentation. Minerva was, above all things, calm and collected in public. She was neither of those things now. All of her well-practiced and honed skills at doing what the situation required with little fuss or agitation was failing her now in spectacular fashion.
The castle that had comprised her home for the vast majority of her life was in shambles around her. She thought she could have borne up rather well in spite of that if it were not for the bodies laid out in rows down the hall in front of her. If there was a calm and collected manner in which to deal with this, then it was escaping her. Most thoughts were escaping her. She was being haunted by one aspect of her life that she had never before considered a liability - she had always known all of her students' names.
She has never been more saddened to be dedicated to her profession. She could not look at the bodies laid out in a mockery of a gathering in the Great Hall without each of her students' and former students' names scrolling through her head. Small bits and pieces - details about each of them were on a seemingly endless loop inside her head. What should it matter that the Creevey boy's earnest expression the first time she had awarded him house points had left her chuckling to herself after the students had filed from her classroom that day? (She had always had a soft spot for the muggleborn as they found their way through the process of navigating a world new to them.)
She would appreciate a faulty memory at this moment. The celebration rages around her and she does her best to keep the frown from her features, but her heart and mind are not set on celebrating. She does not begrudge, but she does not join. She has missed Albus many a time over the course of the last year, but the feeling has never struck her more sharply than in this moment when (it feels as if it is the first time in ages) there is nothing for her to do. She misses having the ability to ask questions (as often as she was frustrated by what she felt were only half answers it was still something). She misses having someone to help provide direction and paint things into broader strokes for her. She cannot see the broader strokes at this moment. She knows, of course, in an intellectual fashion that the immediate threat has been cut off at the knees. She understands in the theoretical way that much of the hazard of the previous year has taken a blow. She still cannot take herself out of the tragedy of the moment. She is failing. She is at a loss.
She will throw herself in to the rebuilding soon - the castle itself has hardly escaped the perils of this night unscathed, but that will have to wait. For now, she will have to be stoic. She will have to be present. She is, unfortunately for her in this particular moment, the figurehead for the school should anyone come looking for one. She cannot leave. She cannot appear anything other than composed. She will have to suffer silently through it until the event in the Great Hall winds down.
She will mourn later when she can be on her own - when she can have quiet and peace and the space to just be without the chance of anyone looking in her direction. She needs time to grieve. She needs time to process. There are so many things that she needs to process. There are so many things she simply does not understand about what has occurred. She sees no sense in any of this.
She is a woman who has little tolerance for waste and that is all that she can see around her. Her school is drowning in a waste of life and potential. Why? For what?
There might come a moment where she will find herself in a position to understand why such seemingly unnecessary complications have been heaped upon them all - this was not that moment. This was only a moment for her to sit silently and attempt to quiet down her thoughts enough to get through the day.
Minerva McGonagall liked to think that she had reached a number of years (and maturity with them) that gave her a certain amount of steadiness of character. She had taught a variety of students of a variety of ages and skill levels. She had witnessed a few truly impressive (if only for the convolutions of the missteps required to bring them about) accidents of transfiguration that were mind boggling to attempt to unravel. She could correct the most basic of errors in her classroom with a practiced flick of her wand and no thought required. She had been head of house to a couple of generations of students and dealt first hand with all the trauma that was sometimes attendant therein (adolescence was a minefield). Her colleagues called her unflappable. She had a reputation for level headed crisis management that had (once upon a time) earned her the position of Deputy Headmistress (which while technically an honor really just meant an additional paperwork burden and being the first to be applied to when something that required correction but not medical intervention from Poppy arose - which happened fairly often in the setting of a magical boarding school). The point was that she had handled whatever the situation at the moment had been well for many years.
[more]
She was the member of the staff most often sent to introduce muggleborns to the truth of what it was that had often plagued their families with wonderings and dread that they held back and declined to voice. She had once had a particularly ill-tempered Yorkshire terrier attach itself to her leg with its teeth while she was delivering a Hogwarts' letter.
She had calmly removed the creature and continued her presentation. Minerva was, above all things, calm and collected in public. She was neither of those things now. All of her well-practiced and honed skills at doing what the situation required with little fuss or agitation was failing her now in spectacular fashion.
The castle that had comprised her home for the vast majority of her life was in shambles around her. She thought she could have borne up rather well in spite of that if it were not for the bodies laid out in rows down the hall in front of her. If there was a calm and collected manner in which to deal with this, then it was escaping her. Most thoughts were escaping her. She was being haunted by one aspect of her life that she had never before considered a liability - she had always known all of her students' names.
She has never been more saddened to be dedicated to her profession. She could not look at the bodies laid out in a mockery of a gathering in the Great Hall without each of her students' and former students' names scrolling through her head. Small bits and pieces - details about each of them were on a seemingly endless loop inside her head. What should it matter that the Creevey boy's earnest expression the first time she had awarded him house points had left her chuckling to herself after the students had filed from her classroom that day? (She had always had a soft spot for the muggleborn as they found their way through the process of navigating a world new to them.)
She would appreciate a faulty memory at this moment. The celebration rages around her and she does her best to keep the frown from her features, but her heart and mind are not set on celebrating. She does not begrudge, but she does not join. She has missed Albus many a time over the course of the last year, but the feeling has never struck her more sharply than in this moment when (it feels as if it is the first time in ages) there is nothing for her to do. She misses having the ability to ask questions (as often as she was frustrated by what she felt were only half answers it was still something). She misses having someone to help provide direction and paint things into broader strokes for her. She cannot see the broader strokes at this moment. She knows, of course, in an intellectual fashion that the immediate threat has been cut off at the knees. She understands in the theoretical way that much of the hazard of the previous year has taken a blow. She still cannot take herself out of the tragedy of the moment. She is failing. She is at a loss.
She will throw herself in to the rebuilding soon - the castle itself has hardly escaped the perils of this night unscathed, but that will have to wait. For now, she will have to be stoic. She will have to be present. She is, unfortunately for her in this particular moment, the figurehead for the school should anyone come looking for one. She cannot leave. She cannot appear anything other than composed. She will have to suffer silently through it until the event in the Great Hall winds down.
She will mourn later when she can be on her own - when she can have quiet and peace and the space to just be without the chance of anyone looking in her direction. She needs time to grieve. She needs time to process. There are so many things that she needs to process. There are so many things she simply does not understand about what has occurred. She sees no sense in any of this.
She is a woman who has little tolerance for waste and that is all that she can see around her. Her school is drowning in a waste of life and potential. Why? For what?
There might come a moment where she will find herself in a position to understand why such seemingly unnecessary complications have been heaped upon them all - this was not that moment. This was only a moment for her to sit silently and attempt to quiet down her thoughts enough to get through the day.