Professor Minerva McGonagall stood in the shadows of the third-floor corridor, watching the scene unfold ahead.
Two Gryffindors gripped their wands, knuckles white, glaring at three Slytherins. The air was thick with tension, a single spark away from violence.
This was the fourth confrontation she had broken up today.
Ever since Hagrid's hut burned down, the friction between the two houses had rapidly escalated from petty bickering to corridor ambushes.
"Put your wands away, all of you."
McGonagall's voice wasn't loud, but it carried an authority that no one dared defy.
The students scattered reluctantly. But the final look the Slytherins shot her before leaving made her stomach twist. That hostility wasn't directed at her personally; it was aimed at the entire disciplinary structure of the school.
Back in her office, McGonagall slumped into her wooden chair, staring at the stack of disciplinary reports waiting for her signature.
Her temples throbbed. The suffocating stress of the past few days had drained her completely.
As Deputy Headmistress, it was her duty to uphold the sanctity of the school rules. Yet as Dumbledore's second-in-command, she was being forced to remain silent about a scandal severe enough to see Hagrid fired and Harry Potter expelled.
The fire at Hagrid's wasn't an accident.
She knew exactly what had happened that night: illegal dragon breeding, smuggling, and underage students out long past curfew.
By the strict moral code she had lived by her entire life, she should be standing in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement right now, filing a comprehensive investigation report.
Instead, Dumbledore had issued a gag order.
"To protect the bigger picture, Minerva," he had told her.
But McGonagall was starting to see the true cost of that protection. The cost was watching Gryffindor's discipline crumble from the inside out.
Dumbledore's silence was causing a ripple effect far beyond what he anticipated.
It didn't just tie her hands; it silently broadcasted a dangerous message to a very observant student body:
The rules at Hogwarts do not apply equally to everyone. That shattered perception of fairness was the true poison killing their discipline.
Harry and Ron had been chronically late or leaving early lately. They wouldn't meet her eyes, and their robes occasionally carried the distinct scent of scorched fabric.
She should have reprimanded them fiercely. But because she shared their massive, illicit secret, every scolding felt hollow and hypocritical.
She was effectively enabling their lies.
What worried her more was the psychological tug-of-war happening in the castle.
The Slytherins had become unusually active. Draco Malfoy was no longer loudly bragging in the halls; instead, he was making frequent, quiet trips to the owlery. Whenever he crossed paths with her, he offered a polite, almost pitying smile.
The Gryffindors, meanwhile, were acting like cornered animals, highly aggressive and quick to snap. Just yesterday, Seamus Finnigan had exploded in a rage simply because Neville accidentally stepped on his foot. Down in their common room, rumors of Slytherin informants had frozen relationships to absolute zero.
The conflict was continuously escalating.
McGonagall noticed students were traveling in packs more often, sticking strictly to their own houses and keeping their wands drawn.
This paranoid, defensive posturing meant one thing: the students no longer believed the school could protect them.
Meanwhile, the Ministry's movements were feeling increasingly irregular.
Just this afternoon, she had spotted three official memos cc'd to the Improper Use of Magic Office.
The wax seals stamped on them made her heart sink.
Lucius Malfoy's intentions were now glaringly obvious.
The order of the castle was collapsing from within, and as its gatekeeper, she was being ordered to personally unbolt the doors.
Saturday midnight.
Professor McGonagall disobeyed Dumbledore's instructions. He had told her to stay in her quarters and ignore any noises she heard.
But to a woman devoted to order, that kind of mandated ignorance felt like an insult.
She pulled on her dark robes and walked toward the base of the Astronomy Tower.
She stopped in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs.
From above came the muffled thud of a heavy object being dragged, mixed with the harsh scraping of stone.
She could hear Harry's rapid, panicked breathing and Ron's hushed swearing.
Even through the thick stone walls, she could make out the low, guttural hisses of the dragon hatchling.
For a split second, McGonagall's hand reached for the wand inside her robes.
If she rushed up there right now and caught them red-handed, this entire disaster could still be contained as a severe internal school violation.
She could use this last, closing window of time to seize control of the narrative before the Ministry could intervene.
But she didn't move.
Because she remembered the look in Dumbledore's eyes. She remembered the crushing external pressure bearing down on Hogwarts.
If she caught Potter at this exact moment, she would be personally handing the definitive proof straight to Lucius Malfoy and the Ministry.
She realized with sickening clarity that she was actively aiding a smuggling operation.
She stood in the dark, listening to a sharp whistle from above. Charlie's contacts had arrived.
McGonagall felt a wave of indescribable exhaustion. It wasn't physical; it was a deep, moral fatigue.
The justice she had championed her entire life had been reduced to an act of self-deception.
To save Hagrid and Potter, she had chosen to abandon her integrity as Deputy Headmistress.
Just then, her sharp ears caught movement from the direction of the castle's front gates.
It wasn't students. It wasn't Filch.
It was the rhythmic clack, clack, clack of boots on the flagstones.
McGonagall turned her head weakly toward the entrance.
In the dim moonlight, she saw several figures in dark gray robes moving swiftly across the courtyard.
Ministry officials.
They had bypassed normal channels and enacted a direct administrative intervention.
McGonagall realized they never intended to give Dumbledore a chance to breathe.
She looked back up the tower, where Harry and Ron were still struggling with their cargo.
Every instinct screamed at her to run up and tell them to flee. But her feet remained planted on the stone.
As a guardian of order, she made her final choice to simply stand her ground.
She watched the uninvited guests storm into the base of the tower.
High above, the whistling suddenly cut off.
It was replaced by a sharp, clear sound: the girlish, trilling laugh of Dolores Umbridge.
McGonagall closed her eyes and whispered softly into the dark, "It is entirely too late."