Torches flickered against stone walls that had stood for a thousand years, casting long shadows that danced like dying things. The enchanted ceiling reflected nothing but smoke-choked skies above.

Bodies lay in rows along the cold floor. Some still. Some trembling. Some gone entirely.

And at the front of it all, McGonagall stood with her hands clasped so tight her knuckles had gone white, her tartan robes smeared with dust and something darker.