Minerva was a Gryffindor. People looked at her, with her superb exam results, and tight hair, strict regime, commanding air, and immediately said Ravenclaw. She laughed at those people. People said that because she didn't rise up and fight, that she was a coward. She was going to curse those people. Later.

There were Death Eaters at Hogwarts. Death Eaters under the astronomy tower, in the Great Hall, in the classrooms, in the headmaster's office. But the Death Eaters couldn't permeate the walls, couldn't poison the air, couldn't damage the souls of the pupils, her pupils; not while she was around.

Sometimes, Minerva felt the old battle tug, the one that wanted to pull her wand from her pocket and cast a spell, throw a jinx, defend the weak. But Minerva knows that patience and logic are the way to win this particular battle.

She wants to join the pupils she sees sneaking out, wants to paint graffiti on the walls, save the kids, murder those infidels who dare to harm them. But she can't.

So she beats them back with cold words and cold glares, with a subtle hand on her wand when they dare to point theirs at her. She saves her students with clever words they cannot understand, she rescues people with a brisk walk and commanding presence.

She is a Gryffindor, but now is not the time for bravery. And nowadays, she is old, she's had her war. Leave the bold, daring acts to the young ones, much as they seem too young.

Minerva is a teacher now. She is there to guide, to assist, but ultimately, to let them try things for themselves. She will let them use her classroom to recuperate, will offer words of encouragement when no spying ears can hear. She has taught them how, but now the true test has come. And she will not join in, because someone has to be the responsible adult around here, someone to turn to when all else fails. Someone to trust.

Because she knows that a time was coming when she will protect them.