July 29th. Early morning.
Harry was in the attic doing a series of pull ups when Kreacher came to inform him that Professor McGonagall was in his sitting room. As was usual for him, he had woken well before dawn from a nightmare and decided to work off his anxiety by physically exhausting himself. He quickly charmed himself dry and smelling fresh before quickly moving downstairs. Pulling a t-shirt on before walking into the room, he plastered a fake smile on his face. "Professor! It's so good to see you again!" he exclaimed, reaching to shake her hand.
"Yes, Mr. Potter, it is good. Especially since most of the wizarding world seems to think that you are no longer with us," she shook his hand and looked at him expectantly. There was an uncomfortable pause with tension in the air. He looked at his feet. "I love the redecorating. It is significantly less depressing in here."
"Can Kreacher gets Master and guest anythings?" Kreacher asked from the doorway.
"Professor?" Harry looked at his former teacher, unsure of himself.
"Tea would be lovely, Kreacher. Thank you."
"For me as well, Kreacher. Thanks" Harry gestured to the couch and sat in the armchair opposite her. "Professor - I have a few questions - before I can answer to, that is - your, uh, letter.." Harry began haltingly.
"Mr. Potter." McGonagall slowly sank onto the couch and pinned him to his seat with her glare. "I have a few questions that will require answers before we can do anything else. Am I understood?"
"Yes, ma'am." Harry couldn't meet her eyes. Kreacher popped in the room for the briefest of moments with a tea service and a small selection of biscuits before he left again. Harry busied himself with making a cup for his former professor while she began to speak.
"Why is it that no one has heard from you since the day following the Final Battle?" she took the cup and drank deeply. "Why is it that you have been hiding out here? Why is it that you never had yourself or your wand examined by Mediwizards or the Aurors on the scene?"
Looking at the ground, Harry mumbled out, "I don't where to start."
"Try, Mr. Potter."
He shuffled sideways in his seat, refusing to look up.
"Harry." Surprised at her use of his given name, his eyes shot to hers. They were filled with caring, concern, and a familiar twinkle. "Please talk to me. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger are very concerned about you. The only reason I hadn't come sooner was their assurance that you were alive."
"Professor, I -"
"Minerva. Call me Minerva, Harry," she smiled at him.
Harry blushed and restarted, "Minerva, I will try to explain.. But please let me finish before saying anything." At her nod, he continued, "I am a murderer. I know that they are waiting to put me on a pedestal for doing something so awful and I don't know if I can handle that. No one should be thanked for committing murder." His hands had started to shake, so he set down his teacup. "I don't want any attention because of the fact that I have no family. All that means is that I know the deepest form of loneliness, not that I deserve praise! I eliminated another person from this world! I destroyed Gringotts! And the Wizarding World probably wants to congratulate me on it!"
"Harry.. Please!" Minerva leaned toward him. "No one wants to congratulate you on feeling alone!" She grasped his hands. "They will thank you. They will put you on a pedestal. You - you rescued the wizarding world!"
"But I used Unforgivables during the war…" Harry stared at her dumbfounded, his shoulders sagging with relief. "They must realize that I'm not… Golden?"
"No. Absolutely not. The community at large believes you to be a perfect specimen of wizard. Every good quality and none of the bad. This may not be true, but nothing you or I say will change their minds." She leaned back into the couch. "That being said, the goblins of Gringotts do wish to speak with you, strictly from a monetary standpoint. Relatively little damage to the bank actually occurred, but they do want you to pay for the repairs," she said, smirking. "What else is keeping you locked in here? Your own personal prison? What is stopping you from returning to Hogwarts? Surely it isn't just being, well… worshipped by the public? You've dealt with that for years."
"Prof - Minerva - I'm not sure I could live in close quarters with people who treated me that way. There are things… things that only Ron and Hermione know about. Things that we can't repeat to others, but would change how they view me. It's a false image!" Harry looked at her with sadness in his eyes. He needed her to understand.
"There are some things that will help, Harry. But I can't fix these things for you." She sighed and finished her tea. "I will tell you that the 8th years will live in large dormitories. New quarters that have been built near the kitchens. You are the last to confirm attendance. If you say yes, it would bring our attendance to a round twenty students in the eighth year. There will be plenty of new things to hold everyone's attention throughout the year, I can assure you."
There was a long pause where she looked at Harry and he looked at the ground.
"What if," he started quietly. "What if I try and can't handle it? Can I leave?"
"You need to stay until the first term is over. Then we would talk before you could withdraw. How does that sound?"
"I could try that. I suppose." Harry met her gaze. His eyes were blazing. "I won't allow them to idolize me, Minerva. I won't be taking the train, either. I'll apparate to Hogsmeade on the 1st and walk up to the castle."
"I understand, Mr. Potter." She stood and made it clear she was taking her leave. "I shall return to Hogwarts now and finish the preparations for the new school year. It's only a month away now, you know." Harry stood, too, and began walking her to the floo. "You do not need to send an owl, this will count as your confirmation of attendance. I will see you in September. Do allow Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger to see you for your birthday, yes?"
"I'll think about it, Professor," he smiled and shook her hand again before she stepped into the flames. As soon as she spun out of sight, he reached for his firewhiskey.