"I'll be back to speak with you in just a moment, Potter," Professor McGonagall said, leading Harry into her new office. He nodded mutely and sat down at the chair behind the desk.
The room seemed much larger now, somehow, than it had just a few months before, though Harry knew it hadn't been enlarged; it was more that it was barren and empty, just a few lonely books on the vast shelves and some unopened boxes on the floor. Professor McGonagall clearly hadn't had time to unpack, much less decorate, her new quarters. Harry couldn't help being glad; Dumbledore's office nearly empty was better than Dumbledore's office taken over by McGonagall.
He swallowed hard at this thought, struggling to remember why he'd thought it was a good idea to come here and in the first place. Even vacant except for the mostly-slumbering portraits on the walls, the room simply breathed of Dumbledore, and Harry didn't know if he could handle it.
He stood up halfway, awkwardly, wondering if it would be rude to leave now – but then he heard a slight cough, coming not from the portraits above, but from the corner behind him. He turned around slowly.
"Hello?" he asked. There was no reply. "Er – is anybody there?"
"Hello, m'boy," a voice replied, and Harry's legs nearly gave out.
"Professor?" he asked desperately. "Where are you?"
"Down here," the voice replied, and Harry looked down. He felt his stomach swoop and he took a step closer to the portrait on the floor.
There hadn't been time, it turned out, even to hang up the newest addition to the group of former headmasters and headmistresses on the walls. This one was leaning slightly against the wall, and the man pictured was smiling gently, his long fingers slowly tapping against each other. He was wearing – Harry let out a choked laugh at how fitting it was – long purple robes and a purple hat, and his half-moon spectacles were resting familiarly on his nose.
"Professor Dumbledore," he breathed.
"Hello, Harry," he said.
With those words, Harry felt a breath of life he thought he'd lost flow back into him – because this portrait was Professor Dumbledore, it knew him, it could speak to him, it could help him – everything would be all right now, because Dumbledore almost always knew what to do, he could help Harry now, Harry wouldn't be alone, floundering, sinking…
"You know me!" he gasped excitedly.
The portrait smiled wider. "Well of course I do. You're very famous around here, and from what my fellow portraits have told me, I was very fond of you in my day."
Harry felt his sudden hopeful thrill whoosh out of him. He stumbled backwards and fell heavily back into the chair, staring in horror at the still-smiling portrait – no more than that – of Dumbledore.
The door to the office swung open and McGonagall walked briskly inside.
"Are you all right, Potter?"
"Yes, Professor," he whispered. But really, it was worse even than it had been before.