A/N: I have not abandoned The Light at the End of the Tunnel, Chapter 4 is just going slowly so I thought I'd have a bit of a break and write something a bit less intense! Please R&R, no flames! L x
"BOY!"
Harry groaned to himself at the sound of his Uncle's voice bellowing up the stairs. He already had a headache after being out in the sun all day trying to salvage his Aunt's flowers, which had been wilting miserably in the heatwave. What he was supposed to do about it, he didn't know – there was a ban on sprinklers and he was not exempt to it.
"OI!" came another yell even louder than the first one, and Harry decided he'd better go and see what was the matter before his Uncle exploded and Harry had to clean up the mess. He yawned and ran a hand through his hair before slouching out of his room and dragging himself downstairs, wondering vaguely why he felt so listless all of a sudden; he was usually very active.
Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, he was in for a surprise. There was his Uncle, the usual impressive shade of puce, and standing near him looking completely out of place and rather perturbed by the outburst – his Transfiguration teacher and Head of House, Minerva McGonagall.
"Ah, Potter," she said crisply, briefly looking him up and down, "The Headmaster wishes me to discuss something with you. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?" she shot at Vernon, who looked furious at her making demands in his house.
"Yes, outside," he replied rudely. However, he quailed under the look he received in response to this answer, and he hurriedly amended, "What I mean to say is, we're using the kitchen and living room at the moment…" This was a blatant lie; Petunia was out shopping, Dudley was out with his gang and up until the doorbell rang, Vernon had been in the garden with the newspaper, growing steadily redder the longer he was out in the sun.
Harry felt he ought to intervene before things got nasty. His room was, admittedly, a bit of a mess, but it wasn't too bad. He had seen the Gryffindor common room in a worse state. "We can talk in my room, Professor," he suggested. Before Vernon could say another word, Harry's teacher had swept past him and was following Harry up the stairs.
Harry shut the door behind them and sat on his bed, wondering what this could be about. McGonagall, to his surprise, sat next to him on the bed instead of conjuring one of her wooden chairs. She looked a bit awkward and spoke with the air of one determined not to beat about the bush.
"Potter, Professor Dumbledore has sent me to check up on you. He believes that you may still be suffering from the events at the end of last term…"
"Why hasn't he come himself then?" asked Harry.
"He is very busy," replied McGonagall shortly, not meeting his eye.
"Professor…" Harry began, and McGonagall glanced at him, realising that he'd seen straight through her lie and deciding how much to tell him. Albus had asked her not to divulge to anyone else his suspicions about the connection between Harry and Voldemort, and she would respect his wishes.
"I am afraid, Potter, that I cannot tell you why he has not come himself. You will understand, one day…"
Harry didn't really have anything to say to this. He was getting fed up of people telling him that he would understand one day… Hadn't he already proved himself capable of dealing with whatever secrets they were keeping from him? He thought back to his first year, and the conversation he'd had with Dumbledore in the hospital wing…
"Why would he want to kill me in the first place?"
"Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. Not today. Not now. You will know, one day… Put it from your mind for now, Harry. When you are older… I know you hate to hear this… When you are ready, you will know."
When? When would he know? That was three years ago… Would Dumbledore ever tell him? It seemed to Harry that the answer was something that would hurt at any age, so why wait?
"Harry?"
He snapped out of his reverie, slightly startled by McGonagall's use of his first name.
"Sorry, Professor… I was miles away," he said with a forced smile, thinking that if she really was here to check up on him he'd better pretend to be cheerful.
"So, how are you?" his Professor asked.
"Fine." He replied, not meeting her eyes. She hadn't expected anything else, but she knew she had to push the matter – Harry would say he was fine even if one of his limbs was hanging off.
"Look at me and say that."
Harry looked up, meeting her gaze. He'd looked people in the eye and maintained that he was fine when he wasn't so many times before, and yet there was something about the way she was looking at him that made him falter. Her (actually quite beautiful, he realised) green eyes were full of concern, her earlier briskness gone, and the expression on her face was almost… Motherly? Harry didn't know; he couldn't remember his mother, the closest thing he'd ever had was Mrs Weasley, and yet instinct told him that she cared about him more than she let on.
"I'm-"
To his annoyance, his voice caught in his throat. He wasn't used to having somebody look at him so caringly, and her insistence to find out how he actually felt was making him think of all the things that made him not fine. Cedric dying. Voldemort returning. The nightmares. The Dursleys. The lack of contact from his friends. The fact that he missed his parents every day and was still haunted by the memory of them emerging from Voldemort's wand.
She, meanwhile, was watching him. Although a very intelligent witch, Professor McGonagall had never bothered to learn Legilimency, seeing it as an invasion of privacy. But it didn't take a skilled Legilimens to see that a lot of painful things were going on inside his head. She wanted to help him, to comfort him, but she wasn't sure how or whether he would want her to. She decided instead to ask him more specific questions.
"Have you been sleeping?"
Harry could feel the bags under his eyes; he knew there was no point denying it and decided to just give in and tell her.
"Not really, no. I keep dreaming about the graveyard… Seeing Cedric dying and Voldemort returning and my-" he couldn't say it; even now, thinking about the way the shadows of his parents had come out of Voldemort's wand brought a lump to his throat and made his eyes sting.
McGonagall thought about this. She didn't want to upset him, but then again clearly he had not been able to talk to the Dursleys and sometimes these things needed to be talked about so that they could be moved on from.
"Your…?" she prompted gently.
Harry cringed internally. He was tempted to snap that he didn't want to talk about it, but something made him decide to reply instead. He just hoped he would be able to retain his composure; if there was one thing Harry Potter hated, it was showing weakness.
He took a deep breath. "My parents… shadows of them, anyway… came out of Voldemort's wand because of Priori Incantatem."
He did not see his teacher wince at the name, for he had turned away to hide the tears in his eyes. She, however, had caught sight of them before he turned away, and placed a cautious hand on his shoulder.
This gesture of comfort was too much for Harry – one of the tears made an escape. He brushed it away impatiently and tried to take a big breath to calm down. Unfortunately, it ended up as more of a sob.
"Harry?" he heard her ask, her voice full of compassion. Blinking furiously, he turned and met her eyes.
"Harry, you don't always have to hide your emotions… Everyone has to cry sometimes, myself included."
He snorted.
"You may well be surprised, but it might interest you to know that I've even seen Professor Snape cry, when he was younger."
At this Harry laughed, and yet at the same time cried harder, because she was being so nice.
As she looked at him, a boy who had suffered too much and faced more than most full-grown wizards, the son of two of her favourite ever students, and he himself amongst her favourites, she decided, just for once, to let down her professional exterior. It was half gone anyway, and Merlin knows, she thought, he needs a shoulder to cry on. She shifted slightly on the bed, moved the hand on his shoulder to his back, and with her other arm pulled him into a tight embrace.
Harry was wary at first, slightly uncomfortable to be crying unashamedly all over his teacher, but she did not let go, and he began to relax. And then, before he knew it, all the pain and guilt from the graveyard and his worries for what lay ahead came flooding out and he cried as he had never cried before. She continued to hold him close, stroking his hair and rubbing circles on his back, surprising herself by how at ease she felt with him. When his sobs receded and became hiccoughs, she pulled back, keeping just one arm around him and smiled at him.
"Better?"
"Sort of…" he mumbled, red-faced.
"Potter, where's your Gryffindor courage! Don't be so embarrassed, I'm your Head of House; it is, quite literally, my job to look after you when you're upset. It may be rare, but you are by no means the first to have done this, and you won't be the last. I take the wellbeing of my students seriously."
Harry looked up and was relieved to see she was still smiling; but strict Professor McGonagall had definitely surfaced a bit there!
"Thank you, Professor," he said sincerely. He couldn't tell her how much her concern meant to him, particularly in this house, where all he was used to was at best being ignored.
But he did not need to. She knew how much it had meant, she could see it in his eyes. Her own twinkled as she replied "you're very welcome, Harry. I shall return to Hogwarts and inform Professor Dumbledore that you are coping very well, but that I believe you would benefit from some time with the Weasleys and Miss Granger."
He smiled broadly at this. If McGonagall was going to fight his case, he knew he had a very good chance of leaving Privet Drive soon – he didn't know about Dumbledore, but he certainly wouldn't have the nerve to say no to her when she had her mind set on something!
She stood up, saying "enjoy the rest of your holidays. I'll see you in September." She gave him a brief smile and ruffled his hair affectionately, then turned on the spot and Disapparated with a slight pop.
Harry leant back onto his bed. He still felt tired, probably due to all his crying, and he still felt sad and worried. But the pain had eased a bit, and there was something else there, something that he lacked so far this summer and that his formidable, but caring Head of House had given him back. Hope.