Disclaimer: Don't own anything, not even my heart. It belongs to someone who takes delight in crushing it.
Author's Note: this is the first time I am writing in McGonagall's point of view. I hope I have done justice to her character
Just A Boy
BY: AKale
He was just a boy.
Guilt is an emotion felt by a person when they feel they have violated a moral standard.
It makes itself known with the heaviness in your chest, the hammering in your heart, the lightheadedness and the rising bile in your throat.
She watched him as his chest heaved from the labored breaths while the rest of the body was buried under casts and bandages, lying pail and unresponsive, in the hospital wing, barely aware of the hustle even at this ungodly hour of the night.
Defying all odds, Harry Potter survived another attempt on his life, to see the sun rise again tomorrow.
Yet again.
The scene was like the broken part of a tape. It kept on repeating each time. Only the boy grew in age.
Minerva McGonagall sighed as she looked over the boy. Taking a seat next to him, she battled the extent of emotions overwhelming her.
Anger, disbelief, sadness, pride, relief.
Guilt.
She winced as she recalled the conversation she overheard, on the sly, between the Headmaster and Snape. About how they all had let harry grow up. Only to be killed and the right moment.
Raising a pig for slaughter.
She could feel the disbelief in Severus's voice. The fury in her as she waited for Dumbledore's defense which never came. It was almost as if he accepted the potion master's observation. She wanted to retaliate, defend him, wanted to prove Snape wrong. Wanted to cry out that Harry is as important to her as any other child in Hogwarts. That Dumbledore would never put harry in harm's way. That he would never let harry become a weapon in this fight.
Looking at the pallid face, resting against the pillow, she suddenly wasn't sure.
He is not a weapon. He is just a boy.
He let out a slight groan of pain, jerking her from her thoughts. She glanced at the boy as his eyes rolled behind his eyelids. Beads of perspiration rolled down his face.
Uneasy. Pain. A bad dream.
She smoothed out his hair trying to settle him back to sleep lest he should wake up. Her fingers traced the scar on his forehead.
Scars.
He had enough on him to last for many lives. Some were caused by Quidditch. Some were the result of his stupidity. Most were due to his brushes with death.
So many scars. Each of them told a story. Of how these scars would have been avoided, if only someone had looked out for him.
Someone . anyone.
It wasn't right. As a child, there were people to help her, guide her, protect her, to keep her safe. Where were Harry's protectors? They had sworn to take his hand as he hurled himself through life.
She was failing before her very eyes.
Where were we, she thought darkly, when the child was battling dementors? When his name was falsely put in the goblet? When he turned up with a dead Cedric in his arms? When Umbridge threatened him? When he battled the basilisk alone?
Castles were crumbling.
She knew his childhood had not been pleasant. Knew enough to realize that he was being abused. Why didn't anyone see this? Instead we admonish him for the risks he takes to survive, pat on his back when he comes back from yet another danger, tell him things will get better and send him back to the place he absolutely loathes. It's no wonder he doesn't trust the Order or her with his thoughts. Preferred his friends' help instead of her own judgment. Broke rules to keep himself alive instead of taking her into his confidence.
Things never got better.
Facing death once shatters a human into bits. Facing death every year, treating every hour of the day as the last one- harry potter had been quiet, too quiet. No anger in his eyes, no sorrow in his voice, no happiness curving his mouth.
Just resignation.
Almost as if he was giving up on himself. Giving up on others.
Letting the chips fall on their own. The dominos tumble down.
He got tired of waiting for people to watch out for him. He took matters into his own hands. In his child heart, the lies hurt him more than the abuses hurled by his aunt. The abuses hurt his body. The lies scarred his soul. With a start she realized there were more scars than that visible to the naked eye.
Some scars hide deep inside, gnawing away, refusing to get healed.
It's an illusion that he comes back stronger after each time he faces Voldermort. That he would always bounce back.
It was lies, all lies.
Each time he came back, something within him dies.
In the light of pale gas lit lanterns and candles, she studied him carefully. Gone was the child on whose head she had placed the Sorting Hat, nearly six years ago. What sat in front of her was a man, someone who knew how to defend himself and those whom he loved. His eyes showed maturity of an adult, the wisdom of someone who knows that life is a constant battle.
In any other student, she would have been proud.
Not with him though. Lying in front of her, was a boy who was hurled awake from innocence and put into the shoes of a soldier. A lad who was taught to treat every day like his last. Someone who was being groomed and taught so that he could sacrifice himself, so that the rest of them could sleep peacefully in their beds.
She despaired. Severus was right.
What if he doesn't bounce back? He was thrust with this, solely because Voldemort chose him. He was fighting a war in which he had no say. In which his fault was being born at a wrong time.
We think he is invincible. We think he is a hero. He is just a boy.
Minerva McGonagall stood up and started walking away, as she battled the feeling of guilt inside her. She gazed out at the snow covered peaks, just as dawn broke over the horizon.
Sure, Harry Potter was The Boy Who Lived.
But at the end of the day, he was still a boy.
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