A/N: Wow, I'm really sorry this took so long. As always, I can't really promise when the next update will come; I don't write fanfiction regularly or in advance. One thing before this chapter starts: this story is now AU, since Order of the Phoenix came out after I had started Part 2, and this is supposed to be Harry's fifth year. Sorry, should have made it sixth :) It might, however, have overtones of the fifth book, since it's been bouncing around in my head ever since I read it.
The knock was stiff and polite, two short raps on the oak—Minerva did not miss the significance, and frowned. Harry always knocked three times for luck; it was a Muggle thing he had tried to explain many times, but she never quite got the point. Muggles were very taken with it, apparently; they even wrote songs with names like "Knock On Wood" and "Knock Three Times." Harry must be very distracted by something to have forgotten.
"Come in, Harry," she called, and the creak of the door was followed by the bespectacled eyes and wiry frame of a fifteen-year-old boy. He closed the door, then started in surprise as his eyes found her.
"You're...I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up, I just...I'll go," he stuttered and turned for the door.
"Harry, please, I invited you," she interrupted quickly. "I had simply assumed you weren't coming and was about to retire," she explained. His start of surprise had been in response to her state of dress; she had abandoned her emerald robes for a nightgown of the same shade, and her dark hair was swinging freely down her back. He felt a sort of fierce pride, looking at her; she had aged very gracefully, it seemed, and he couldn't imagine that she'd been any less beautiful when she was his mother's age. He had to admit that it gave him solace to compare her with Lily Potter; it made the distance between himself and his dead mother seem so small. "Were you studying for your O.W.L.s?" she asked, jolting him back to the present and making him jump.
"No," he said shortly, then, at her raised eyebrow, he replied: "I guess I was waiting for your letter."
She gestured to one of the scarlet armchairs by the fire, and when they were both seated, said softly: "Please don't stand on ceremony with me, Harry. I'm always glad to see you."
"I wasn't, that isn't why!" he replied angrily. "Maybe I needed to wait; to...straighten things out in my head," he finished lamely. He knew what he wanted to say: I needed to feel wanted, not to have to take it for granted. But he couldn't say that to her, not to anyone.
"Tell me," she whispered gently. He shifted uneasily in the cushiony armchair.
"You can't know what it's like," he began sadly. "Everyone minding their own business around you...except Ron, when he should be," he amended with a wry smile. She smiled in return and waited expectantly. "You know him. He thinks he's entitled to know everything." He blushed faintly, remembering one such instance not long ago that involved his Transfiguration professor and, of all things, her love life.
"I believe," she answered slyly, "that this might be termed an exceedingly well-documented case of the pot calling the kettle black." Harry blushed more heavily, staring determinedly at the fire.
"But I don't pry into these sorts of things," he protested. "I only want to know so I can be useful and help when I need to, but Ron...he's turning into an awful gossip," he finished hotly. Minerva managed with difficulty to suppress a smile.
"Would this have anything to do with a very attractive Ravenclaw Seeker?" she asked knowingly. Harry's head whipped around to find a disturbingly triumphant look on her face.
"How...?"
"I've been keeping an extra eye out for you, Harry," she said simply. "It's not difficult to spot a change in your mood when I'm checking every ten minutes to see if you need anything," she admitted sheepishly. Harry looked away, embarrassed. This brought him back to the beginning again. They were both silent for several long minutes, staring sightlessly into the dancing flames as they glinted off Minerva's hair and Harry's glasses. "You aren't happy, are you?" she said suddenly. Harry saw no point in trying to deny it. She was just as good as the headmaster at seeing through lies. He shook his head mutely. "What can I do?"
"Nothing," he said flatly. "Just be happy with him, I'll be fine," he added without thinking. He mentally smacked himself as he realized what he had just said. Silence reigned again, and a warm hand grasped his in the deepening twilight.
"He isn't everything to me, you know," she said seriously, lifting his chin with her free hand so that he had no choice but to look at her. "Real, lasting love isn't like that. It doesn't possess your entire heart every minute of every day. It adds to the joys, detracts from the pain, and most of all, is always there to rest your worries on. It leaves room in your life for everything else that you want; it gives you your freedom. And part of my freedom is caring for you, Harry. My love for Albus doesn't lessen mine for you. Never assume you aren't welcome, and I'm sure Albus agrees with me. He loves you too, Harry, more than you can imagine; he always has." Harry was deeply touched by this speech but, boylike, he wouldn't show it. In spite of all the scowling he could muster, however, the traitorous tears of despair leapt to his eyes.
"It all boils down to one thing, though," he said firmly, ignoring her fingertips wiping away the damp patches on his cheeks. "I've got to stand alone. When...he comes for me...I'll be on my own. I am on my own. And whatever anyone feels for me can't ever change that."
"It already has, Harry," she contradicted gently. "Long ago. Your mother's sacrifice has saved your life many times. Love kept you alive, and it fights with you always. Perhaps none of us may physically stand at your side at the end, but you take us with you wherever you go. Your quick mind and quicker instincts, your courage, your compassion...everything you are has grown and flourished here, under this roof, where you are loved."
"You make it sound so easy," he muttered. "And so...so real. I wish—"
"No, you don't," she slipped in deftly. "Don't say it. You could only ever be yourself."
"But you've changed. Everyone has changed."
"We've all grown, Harry," she laughed. "And so have you. Changing is quite different."
"What about Ron and Hermione?" he whispered stubbornly. She allowed a flicker of sadness to enter her eyes—she could see very well what he was feeling.
"They'll always need you," she said quietly. "No matter how things change, that won't."
Harry was silent for several minutes, tracing the grain of the oak chair- arm and letting his mind absorb all she had said. He wasn't, wouldn't be alone, not really. The thought was a refreshing spray of water to his burning soul. Speaking of which, he thought slyly. He turned his head to look at her, catching only her profile. She was studying something just above the mantelpiece, giving him as much privacy as she could. She looked so young for one so wise. What had she seen? He somehow knew there was more than just their shared experience this year. She had a quality of natural sagacity; nothing about her was impetuous or small. The only thing quick to burn in her was anger, but it usually manifested itself in the coolest, most cutting ways, only seldom igniting into bursts of temper. She served her namesake well—the avenging goddess, a mixture of calm deliberation and raging war-blood. It suddenly occurred to Harry that starting at the beginning might be a good idea. How had she and Dumbledore first met? He had a feeling that would lead him to the answer. But he had been about to ask her something else, something about refreshment? And then he remembered her note.
"Professor?"
"Hmm?"
"You invited me here for hot chocolate. Are you going to keep your promise?" She laughed loudly and reached out to cup his chin between thumb and forefinger.
"So you came for chocolate, did you? Truly, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach." Harry snorted with laughter, then sighed. He felt better, just being here with her.
The knock was stiff and polite, two short raps on the oak—Minerva did not miss the significance, and frowned. Harry always knocked three times for luck; it was a Muggle thing he had tried to explain many times, but she never quite got the point. Muggles were very taken with it, apparently; they even wrote songs with names like "Knock On Wood" and "Knock Three Times." Harry must be very distracted by something to have forgotten.
"Come in, Harry," she called, and the creak of the door was followed by the bespectacled eyes and wiry frame of a fifteen-year-old boy. He closed the door, then started in surprise as his eyes found her.
"You're...I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up, I just...I'll go," he stuttered and turned for the door.
"Harry, please, I invited you," she interrupted quickly. "I had simply assumed you weren't coming and was about to retire," she explained. His start of surprise had been in response to her state of dress; she had abandoned her emerald robes for a nightgown of the same shade, and her dark hair was swinging freely down her back. He felt a sort of fierce pride, looking at her; she had aged very gracefully, it seemed, and he couldn't imagine that she'd been any less beautiful when she was his mother's age. He had to admit that it gave him solace to compare her with Lily Potter; it made the distance between himself and his dead mother seem so small. "Were you studying for your O.W.L.s?" she asked, jolting him back to the present and making him jump.
"No," he said shortly, then, at her raised eyebrow, he replied: "I guess I was waiting for your letter."
She gestured to one of the scarlet armchairs by the fire, and when they were both seated, said softly: "Please don't stand on ceremony with me, Harry. I'm always glad to see you."
"I wasn't, that isn't why!" he replied angrily. "Maybe I needed to wait; to...straighten things out in my head," he finished lamely. He knew what he wanted to say: I needed to feel wanted, not to have to take it for granted. But he couldn't say that to her, not to anyone.
"Tell me," she whispered gently. He shifted uneasily in the cushiony armchair.
"You can't know what it's like," he began sadly. "Everyone minding their own business around you...except Ron, when he should be," he amended with a wry smile. She smiled in return and waited expectantly. "You know him. He thinks he's entitled to know everything." He blushed faintly, remembering one such instance not long ago that involved his Transfiguration professor and, of all things, her love life.
"I believe," she answered slyly, "that this might be termed an exceedingly well-documented case of the pot calling the kettle black." Harry blushed more heavily, staring determinedly at the fire.
"But I don't pry into these sorts of things," he protested. "I only want to know so I can be useful and help when I need to, but Ron...he's turning into an awful gossip," he finished hotly. Minerva managed with difficulty to suppress a smile.
"Would this have anything to do with a very attractive Ravenclaw Seeker?" she asked knowingly. Harry's head whipped around to find a disturbingly triumphant look on her face.
"How...?"
"I've been keeping an extra eye out for you, Harry," she said simply. "It's not difficult to spot a change in your mood when I'm checking every ten minutes to see if you need anything," she admitted sheepishly. Harry looked away, embarrassed. This brought him back to the beginning again. They were both silent for several long minutes, staring sightlessly into the dancing flames as they glinted off Minerva's hair and Harry's glasses. "You aren't happy, are you?" she said suddenly. Harry saw no point in trying to deny it. She was just as good as the headmaster at seeing through lies. He shook his head mutely. "What can I do?"
"Nothing," he said flatly. "Just be happy with him, I'll be fine," he added without thinking. He mentally smacked himself as he realized what he had just said. Silence reigned again, and a warm hand grasped his in the deepening twilight.
"He isn't everything to me, you know," she said seriously, lifting his chin with her free hand so that he had no choice but to look at her. "Real, lasting love isn't like that. It doesn't possess your entire heart every minute of every day. It adds to the joys, detracts from the pain, and most of all, is always there to rest your worries on. It leaves room in your life for everything else that you want; it gives you your freedom. And part of my freedom is caring for you, Harry. My love for Albus doesn't lessen mine for you. Never assume you aren't welcome, and I'm sure Albus agrees with me. He loves you too, Harry, more than you can imagine; he always has." Harry was deeply touched by this speech but, boylike, he wouldn't show it. In spite of all the scowling he could muster, however, the traitorous tears of despair leapt to his eyes.
"It all boils down to one thing, though," he said firmly, ignoring her fingertips wiping away the damp patches on his cheeks. "I've got to stand alone. When...he comes for me...I'll be on my own. I am on my own. And whatever anyone feels for me can't ever change that."
"It already has, Harry," she contradicted gently. "Long ago. Your mother's sacrifice has saved your life many times. Love kept you alive, and it fights with you always. Perhaps none of us may physically stand at your side at the end, but you take us with you wherever you go. Your quick mind and quicker instincts, your courage, your compassion...everything you are has grown and flourished here, under this roof, where you are loved."
"You make it sound so easy," he muttered. "And so...so real. I wish—"
"No, you don't," she slipped in deftly. "Don't say it. You could only ever be yourself."
"But you've changed. Everyone has changed."
"We've all grown, Harry," she laughed. "And so have you. Changing is quite different."
"What about Ron and Hermione?" he whispered stubbornly. She allowed a flicker of sadness to enter her eyes—she could see very well what he was feeling.
"They'll always need you," she said quietly. "No matter how things change, that won't."
Harry was silent for several minutes, tracing the grain of the oak chair- arm and letting his mind absorb all she had said. He wasn't, wouldn't be alone, not really. The thought was a refreshing spray of water to his burning soul. Speaking of which, he thought slyly. He turned his head to look at her, catching only her profile. She was studying something just above the mantelpiece, giving him as much privacy as she could. She looked so young for one so wise. What had she seen? He somehow knew there was more than just their shared experience this year. She had a quality of natural sagacity; nothing about her was impetuous or small. The only thing quick to burn in her was anger, but it usually manifested itself in the coolest, most cutting ways, only seldom igniting into bursts of temper. She served her namesake well—the avenging goddess, a mixture of calm deliberation and raging war-blood. It suddenly occurred to Harry that starting at the beginning might be a good idea. How had she and Dumbledore first met? He had a feeling that would lead him to the answer. But he had been about to ask her something else, something about refreshment? And then he remembered her note.
"Professor?"
"Hmm?"
"You invited me here for hot chocolate. Are you going to keep your promise?" She laughed loudly and reached out to cup his chin between thumb and forefinger.
"So you came for chocolate, did you? Truly, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach." Harry snorted with laughter, then sighed. He felt better, just being here with her.