Mature content: implied slash & language - read with discretion
Year 6: Harry Potter and My Whole Fucking World Gets Turned Upside Down.
Everyone is at the Burrow. I detest that place. It reeks of Weasleys. But since Grimmauld Place is no longer an option, I have to go. Lucky me.
As I walk up to the front door, a figure catches my eye. Potter is outside, staring into nothingness. He sees me and turns. If I thought the boy hated me before, there can be no mistaking the emotion now. Pure loathing and venom radiate from his eyes. I wonder if I ever managed to look at him with that much disgust. Probably. But I can see the changes from even a few months ago. He seems to have reached full height, which isn't all that high. The gangliness of his early adolescent years seems gone. Although he's only sixteen, if he were a few inches higher, he could pass for twenty. It's probably the intensity of emotion behind his eyes – he's seen and done more than any sixteen-year-old should have to. Almost more than I did. I break eye contact and go inside.
And I am watching Potter brew another potion. I am so distracted by the concentration on his face, the way his hands dice the roots, the way the steam fogs up his glasses, I almost miss saving the rest of the class from Longbottom's weekly fuck-up. And I realize the way I was just looking at Potter means that I am currently the one who is fucked up.
Wonderful. Albus wants me to continue private lessons with Potter. More Occlumency, but also Legilimency, human Transfiguration, and other N.E.W.T. level material and beyond. I remind him that I have classes to teach and a life to live. His lack of response nearly launches me across his desk to throttle him. Of course I have to do it.
I now have the distinct pleasure of spending not only several hours each week with Potter in my Potions classroom, but another round of lessons in my private office after class hours every day he doesn't have Quidditch practice. Or Sundays. I refuse to be forced to see the bane of my existence every fucking day.
He comes in and I throw theory at him. Book after book. Then we duel. We practice until he must be feeling like his brain is bleeding. I begin to notice that he is dealing with an increasing lack of control. His emotions are unchecked, causing major problems. I try backing off. I have seen too much of that boy's mind to have any further delusions that he is like his father in any way other than looks. Albus was right; he's more like his mother. He certainly yells like she did.
We finish a particularly grueling round of sparring one evening and he flops himself into the nearest armchair to recover. I notice him staring at me with a peculiar look in his eyes. What is that look? I have not seen it before from him. I am unnerved. I am startled when he asks me why I have stopped berating him, why I am being 'nice'. I have to think carefully – he won't appreciate what I am sure he would see as an attempt to treat him like a child, with kid-gloves. But he has made more progress with this approach than before, so I can't go back to the way things were. I chalk it up to different teaching methods and hope he buys it. I'm not sure he does.
He streaks into my office for this evening's lesson and it is at once evident to me that his emotions are higher strung than a pixie on a sugar high. A quick glance at his face reveals fresh tear tracks. This will not do. We won't accomplish anything with him in this state. I very rarely turn 'counselor', but it seems the necessary thing to do. I tell him to sit down, that things will be slightly different for this lesson. I lean back against the front of my desk and cross my arms. Skillfully, deftly, as I am trained to do, I wheedle information out of him regarding his tenuous emotional state. I quickly pinpoint two concentrated areas of issue: his social life, and Black's death. We deal with social life first. After all, he's a teenager. This should be fairly simple. I give a mental snort at my own 'simple' teenage days. I ask him if it's a problem with a girl. He squirms. This is interesting, is he uncomfortable? My curiosity is piqued. I prod further. I snap at him when he tries to assure me it is 'nothing'. After much cajoling, he finally admits that the problem is not with a girl, it's the fact that it isn't with a girl. After years of practice, I am able to hide my smirk. Leave it to the Golden Boy to turn out to be gay. I make a mental note to tell Albus and see what he thinks. I inwardly roll my eyes – he'll think it's great; the man plays for that team, too. Wonderful. When the Dark Lord is dead, the three of us can go trolling for dates at the nearest gay bar. I almost can't contain my mirth. I wave off Potter's concern and try to be as neutral as possible when I tell him it's perfectly common in the wizarding world and if his friends have a problem they'll get over it – or they aren't worth being friends with. He assures me Weasley and Granger are fine with it. Of course they are.
Now we tackle the elephant in the room. Black. I decide I've handled worse than this and plunge in head first. I tell him I know he blames me for Black's death, and he has every right to be upset that the mutt is dead. I don't call him a mutt out loud. First, Potter shocks me with a confused look. Then, he stuns me into silence when he confesses that it is not me that he blames, but himself. Well, it is partly his fault. I figure honesty is the best policy – I never enjoyed being lied to when I was sixteen. I explain that sometimes events happen as a result of several things, and this is one of those times. Yes, he played a part, but by no means was he the sole reason. I am in the middle of a sentence when I notice the tears trailing down his cheeks. I am torn. I can't just sit there and watch. I can't send him away. But I can't comfort him. The thought of me comforting anybody is laughable. But Potter? But it tugs at my heart strings. Well, it would, if I had a heart. Fine, I cringe inwardly, and make my way over to his chair. I sit down on the padded arm and tentatively wrap an arm around his shoulder. His upper body folds into itself, and he buries his face in my leg. His body heaves as he cries. I mean, really cries. I have a feeling it is about much more than Black. I keep my arm on his shoulder and with the other one, I stroke his hair. I don't say anything, but I don't think I have to. He finally stops and sits up. He apologizes. I shrug it off. We both stand up. I tell him I believe our lesson is finished for the evening. We stare awkwardly at each other. I see a steely determination come into his eyes, and he launches himself at me, wrapping his arms around me in a…oh dear God, is he hugging me? Well, I'd better do something. I put my arms around him and give a light squeeze – nothing compared to what he's doing to me. I bring my face down so my cheek rests on the top of his head. I start to realize how good it feels, holding on to him. He doesn't feel like a boy anymore, he feels solid, whole. I can smell him, the salt from his tears, the adrenaline from the anger, and the fear he has of showing me his emotion. I can feel his heart beating furiously in his chest. I don't recognize what is happening to me. Do I…do I like this? Am I…enjoying this? He steps back. He thanks me. He leaves. I can see that he is better. I smile involuntarily.