Minerva McGonagall purses her lips and shakes her head. The course work is laden with shield charms and hexes and poisons, so unlike the Hogwarts she attended years ago.
We are training children to be soldiers, she thinks, but she carries on anyway.
James Potter sits in front of her, telling her that he’s turned down Puddlemere United and will turn down the next three offers he’s sure to receive. Mr. Potter, we’ve worked on your Chaser prospects since your Fourth Year–
It’s okay, Professor. There’s more noble things for a Pureblood to pursue than the World Cup.
It’s with a heavy heart that she marks “No Prospects” on his career trajectory report. That is not how James Potter should be remembered.
Lily Evans asks for combat training and ways to apply Transfiguration to more practical offensive and defensive techniques. Yes of course, Miss Evans, but we’re here for career advice–
It’s okay, Professor. You don’t have to lie to me. No one will hire a Mudblood anymore and I don’t want to waste your time. But I really do need those techniques, if you don’t mind.
Minerva McGonagall purses her lips and wipes tears from her eyes as she marks Lily’s report.
We are training children to be soldiers, she thinks, and she is right.
The transition from stone corridors to burning muggle villages is too easy. Each trap that James and Sirius set for Filch was child’s play, mere practice for the traps they now set for Death Eaters and, at times, Voldemort himself. Remus and Peter were already accustomed to playing lookout– they do the same now, only the stakes are higher than detention.
Lily Evans is screaming, her hands keeping pressure to the spot on James Potter’s side that grows darker with red by the second. Sirius Black reaches them before she has the chance to and lifts James onto his shoulders, running out of the thick of battle with what she can only hope isn’t James’ corpse. The next curses that Lily Evans sends out her wand next are bright green, and her two targets don’t get up.
Minerva McGonagall wipes her brow, catching her breath behind a fallen wall before rushing towards the nearest Death Eater.
We have trained children to be soldiers, she knows, and she doesn’t think she can bare the truth much longer.
Remus Lupin accepts the rags he’s forced to wear underground now. Peter Pettigrew won’t stargaze like he used to for fear that he’ll be the first to spot a Dark Mark. Sirius Black is bored without James Potter, but James is hidden somewhere with Lily Potter and they haven’t been seen for months.
We have trained children to die, she thinks, and she prays that she is wrong.
It’s November 1, 1981 and Minerva McGonagall stares straight ahead, watching. Waiting. Everyone is celebrating and no one seems to realize that children have died.
She sees the baby for the first time and he is alive, scarred but alive, despite all odds. But no one else seems to realize that children have died. Children she taught and trained and fought beside have died and she feels complicit in their slaughter.
Minerva McGonagall remembers the children who have died. She remembers the students who didn’t return from summer break, the students who simply stop showing up to class, and the students who fall to the Dark Arts somewhere along the way. She remembers the students who graduate and forego the lives they deserve in order to prevent other children from dying. These are the children who are too young at eleven to be exposed to fear and are too young at twenty-one to be left for death, and these are the children whom she has helped raise.
She attends the funeral and her only comfort is that there are only two coffins, not three. Peter Pettigrew is dead, but there is no body to bury. Sirius Black is in Azkaban but deserves to be dead. Remus Lupin is alive, but you’d never be able to tell that from the look in his eye.
We have trained children to be soldiers, she knows. We have trained children to die, she thinks, and she is right.
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