Minerva McGonagall stands between Dumbledore and Hagrid, crumpled lace handkerchief in her hands. The midnight sky is alive with the twinkling of the stars now visible in the absence of Privet Drive's street lamps. But none of them are paying any mind to the sky; all three pairs of eyes are fixed on the bundle of blankets that is little Harry Potter.
Minerva can just make out the edge of the envelope that sticks out from Harry's blankets, but from this distance, it's impossible to see the details of the baby's tiny features. But Minerva can remember the details - would always remember the details. The relaxed, content expression that he wore in his sleep. The bright red lightning-shaped cut on his forehead. And, of course, the tiny little shock of jet black hair that exactly matches the shade of his father's.
James. Lily. They burst into her mind's eye in full color - hysterical laughter, flaming red hair, and mischievous grins. They are so full of life that she finds it hard to connect them with the concept of death. And yet, Dumbledore had confirmed the horrible rumors she had refused to believe; Lily and James, dead. Minerva will never again beam with pride at Lily's beautiful wandwork, nor stifle a grin in the face of one of James' jokes. The idea unsettles her.
She blinks back tears, and is met with the sight of Harry on the Dursleys' doorstep. Can she really do this? Leave him here like this, in the dubious care of two unpleasant Muggles? A tightness seizes her around the chest as she imagines what Harry could have had. Flights on a toy broom. Snuggles with his loving mother, little fingers pulling at scarlet strands of hair. Nights with his grinning father, eyes alight with wonder at conjured sparks and lights. But none of that is possible now; Minerva knows it, and it breaks her heart. She hopes he will be happy here on Privet Drive, but she can't imagine what life with the Dursleys will be like, and to be honest, she doesn't want to.
"Well," Dumbledore says into the silence. "That's that." Minerva blinks furiously in an effort to compose herself, and beside her, Hagrid's shoulders finally stop their incessant shaking. The gamekeeper sighs heavily and turns away from the bundle on the doorstep; Minerva can see the tear tracks on his face reflected in the starlight. "We've no business staying here," Dumbledore continues flatly. "We may as well go and join the celebrations."
"Yeah," Hagrid manages, but it sounds like partying is the last thing on his mind. Minerva finds herself disgusted at the idea of a celebration. "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back," Hagrid informs them quietly. "G'night, Professor McGonagall - Professor Dumbledore, sir." And, swiping his sleeve over his eyes, he gets back on the bike and roars away.
"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall." Dumbledore nods in farewell. Minerva says nothing, but blows her nose into her handkerchief and watches him walk back down the street. They are all leaving, and she must leave too. But something indeterminate holds her back, and she glances, once again, at Harry Potter. It's the best place for him, Dumbledore had told her firmly. She has doubts. But she also has hope.
She looks away from the baby's still form, and draws her wand from her cloak pocket. She will see him again. The untidy black hair. The lightning scar. But next time - when she will finally spot him in the jumbled crowd of nervous first years - perhaps, she hopes, he will be smiling.