The rain outside made sloshing sounds against the medal roof over head as it splattered and rushed off the pointed peak and into the long forgotten flower beds that had been taken over by weeds and were in excessive need of trimming and preening. The atmosphere of the unimpressive cottage by the sea was one of dreary distress, and looked as if it had long ago been abandoned and forgotten by those that had planted the garden and paved the walkway with impressive stones. The paint was chipped and nearly missing completely in several areas, the woodwork showing where the sea had rushed up to meet the shore and rock during one storm or another. The character of the house or the attitude was no different on the inside. The appliances were ancient and in desperate need of replacement, the only heat inside the two room dwelling the corner Soldering Furnace, which the family who owned the cottage had purchased back in 1929.

The resident of the cottage was far older then even the furnace that warmed the home, however, and at this very moment looked every bit her age. Sitting in a now antique rocking chair, her tartan plaid night coat was hanging loosely from her thin and fragile looking frame, her wrinkled face buried in her hands as she sobbed quickly. Minerva was not one for tears or for letting be known any weakness she possessed, but as there was no one around for her to keep her strong willed demeanor up for, she was unable to keep the tears at bay. The Prophet lay open across her lap, the title of the piece before her reading `Terrorists Apprehended in Otterton, Order Retaliates with Muggle Massacre.` The lies told to misguide the readers and cause them to distrust the Order was to be expected, and were not the cause for her emotional state. Those apprehended and now sitting unrighteously in a cold cell in Azkaban, however, were. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley's imprisonment was a large blow to the Order, and poor, young Gabrielle who she remembered quite easily from the TwiWizard Tournament as Fleur Delacour's little sister did not deserver to be housed in such a harsh environment.

The fact that she could easily imagine the sort of torture Kingsley and Arthur were sure to endure caused her great heartache, and though the tears were not going to help her cause, they were unstoppable all the same. Whipping quietly at her eyes, she sniffled softly and picked up her wand. Tossing her Prophet to the floor, she went the paper afire, incinerating the Daily Prophet. If she ever got her hands on Rita Skeerer, the women would find herself in a very unpleasant situation. While Rita Skeeter maybe very good at memory alteration spells and other charms and spells common uses of most writers, Minerva was a highly trained witch, and to her the women was no threat aside from her nasty ability to write lies and twist the truth. Whether Rita Skeeter was indeed no immediate threat as she liked to think, she didn't know, and if and when the time came to analyze the woman more thoroughly, she would.

Patting her hair back away from her face and into the tight bun that set religiously atop her head, she sighed heavily and moved toward to the only other room within the small cabin, her bedroom. It was high time she wrote the Order. Her face set in a line that was much more normal and strong set then the feeble frown that had set across her features when she'd been crying.