Minerva McGonagall was a very cool headed woman. For over thirty years she had been a teacher; raising children was her passion. Her good friend, boss, and mentor Albus Dumbledore was currently her least favorite person.

That was including Tom Riddle. Now Riddle was a bright boys. He had many O's in his OWLs (transfigurations included thank you very much). He was charismatic and funny, but only when he wanted to be. Tom could be very shy, maybe even a bit brooding. The Slytherin was going to be great; everyone that he came in contact with could feel that.

Unfortunately he did become great. He was known as the greatest dark wizard since Grindelwald. He had unleashed unspeakable horrid on muggleborns, sympathizers, and your standard muggleborn - who had no concept of the weapons used against them - alike. Nearly a dozen Order members and good friends of hers have died in the last ten years.

Ten months ago two young, bright (if troublesome), children of hers (well students anyway) were viciously slain. Riddle walked up to thier two bedroom home in Godric's Hollow. They hadn't owned the place a year before Lily fell pregnant. She was so excited she threw a large party inviting half of Hogwarts faculty and many more students old and current. Minerva had known Lily Evans since she was just eleven; ten years of the young Gryffindor's life.

Thirteen months after little Harry James was born he was an orphan. Late Hallow's eve in Godric's Hallow. Her favorite student (well teachers never have favorites) was murdered. Her husband died holding that madman back but to no avail. Lily had died shielding her one year old's crib. Tom still shot a killing curse at a defenceless child.

For reasons no one will likely ever understand Harry survived. As soon as word got back to the order Dumbledore swept up the toddler and took him to his Godfather's. Unfortunately less than two weeks after his best friends' murders he was taken to Azkaban. No one would have guessed it. Sirius "padfoot" Black betray his nearly life long friend.

This leaves the child totally orphaned. McGonagall had to admit originally putting him with his only surviving family (a muggleborn aunt) made enough sense. In the muggleborn world it it would be harder for him to be tracked down, his cousin was his age, and they seemed like normal enough people.

That all changed when hary turned two. He made his uncle's brief case vanish, the telly turned on and off whenever he had a tantrum, and Dudley had somehow become glued to the floor during tag more than once. Soon enough his aunt put two and two together. This boy was one of them.

By two and a half barely more than a year after he moved in Harry had his diaper changed less and less frequently. He rarely got held if at all. His aunt would belittle him for throwing a tantrum instead of trying to find its cause.

This is why her oldest friend is her least favorite person. Albus insisted that Harry needed to stay here but if he were to stay Minerva was going to be damn sure the boy got his diaper changed.

After three months of this getting progressively worse Minerva couldn't take it anymore. She found herself in Little Hangleton every other day after classes and patrols were done. She was there most of the day every single Saturday, sometimes into Sunday teas.

Once or twice a week she would slip into the perfect little house, creeping over a perfect little lawn, through a not so perfect second story window. She could use disillusionment charms but morphing was just so much easier. Her old knees barely kept up with the walk from the apparation point to number four. Her feline form was much more resilient.

That's what landed her in an English oak at one am being groomed by a squirrel. Usually she would swat the rodent down to the grass but she was a bit preoccupied with finding the sweet spot on the fourth pane of Harry's room window.

"Mim" piped the thin boy as the brown tabby sprung into a tall imposing woman.

"Now Harry I'm not your mum I'm Minerva. Min-ER-va" cooed the pretty middle aged woman.

Truthfully she thought of herself as his mother. Of course she knew that could be a problem. She could never take the boy away from this place, at least not until he was older. She had already seen so much death and destruction in her life. A war, this boy's parents, nearly a dozen miscarriages, and now her husband was slowly deteriorating in front of her eyes. The muggles had a form of the disease that was much quicker called ALS. She had seen enough if her children dead. By Merlin she would never forgive herself if this boy who survived the killing curse was to die of starvation or a flu due to these imbeciles.

"Min loves you Harry," cooed the witch scuffing at the boy's chest.

He giggled and clung to the scott's red cloak. She placed a light pucker on the scar marring the tot's face.

"Shhh now Harry, we don't need your uncle waking up," the child shuddered at the thought.

The witch stroked his hair and whispered softly, "he can't get to you while I'm here; you will be okay."

The thought had occurred to her many times over the years as slips happened that why didn't she just apparate into his home (if you can call it that)?

The simple answer was the crack that happens to even the most experienced apparators from time to time. The last thing Minerva needed was three very angry muggles on her hand not to mention the possible muggle aurors. The second reason was it was apparent that these muggles hated wizards. Although she could easily out fight any of them wandless she did not want to anger them should Harry have to be left there.

And he did need to stay there, at least if Dumbledore's suspensions were to be proven correct - which if she was being honest with herself he usually was. Somehow the bright, spitfirey, redhead's sacrifice rebounded on Voldemort and created an extra layer of protection around the boy, and he needed blood family to make the blood bond stronger. Minerva had to admit that it seemed ridiculous. Surly Lily Potter wasn't the first mother to sacrifice herself to an avada for her child.

Dumbledore knows best.

She had lost count of the number of times she repeated that mantra. It became unbearable once the boy turned seven. Upon his cousins eighth birthday his parents decided he was old enough (and had enough things) for a second room. Swiftly her little boy who had a strange fascination for drawing tabby cats was shoved into a room barely big enough for him to lay on the floor.

This was her baby boy. She felt a strong attachment to him, she was even as bold as to say she raised him. Sure she was only there for a third of his life at best, and maybe she did have to lie to him a lot to keep him staying with the muggles, but this was the closest she ever had to a son.

It took everything in her to quell the maternal voice telling her to take her child and run every time he told her about his week. But where would they go? He was the most famous wizard in the world, and she lived and worked for someone who insisted Harry stay in this volatile place. She could go to the muggle world but then she would have to leave her frail black mess of hair alone or with a stranger most of the day.

Just three more years. She now had a calendar going for him. Every day she would count back to how long before September 1st, 1991 (1,165 days left). Every week she heard anything negative (nearly every week) she would burn a photograph, of her beloved friend.

Harry needed new glasses every nine months now. Puberty was coming. The old witch wondered if he would be a great seeker like his father, a quieter soul amongst his peers like his mother, quick witted and kind, or jovial with an ear for mischief. She had seen bits and pieces of both of his parents in thier years together.

She hopped he would bulk out a bit once puberty came and he ate three round meals a day at Hogwarts. He was almost all skin and bones as it was. He would always say he's eating but Minerva had seen enough kids to know what even the naturally wry child should weigh. Harry James was much too small for his age. Over 135 cm and barely three stones. His cousin on the other hand was only one and a quarter meters tall and well over five stones. Eight years old and never rode a broom (or a bike for that matter). Boy can't swim, but he can sweep a floor.

How her boy always seemed bright eyed and bushy tailed when she came around twice a week, astounded Minnie. They worked him like a dog, barely fed him, and made him cry more nights than not.

Her mo chirdhe deserved better than this. Merlin even Riddle deserves better than what the Dursley are doing to thier own flesh and blood.

But.

Dumbledore.

Knows.

Best.