A\N: Thank you for your wonderful reviews! Previous chapters edited! Another one for you:

Chapter 8: McGonagall

On Friday Harry got up alone and did his warm-up solitary again. He wondered what had happened, why had Fawkes and Dumbledore left him there without a word. Over the breakfast supplied by Dobby, which he had audaciously brought to the unguarded Library, he pondered the subject. He guessed it had something to do with his vision - that was, after all, what triggered the situation - and realised he hoped that the lack of news meant good news. Concretely, that Draco was still alive.

His mind eventually swayed to Potions and he spent the rest of the day studying. The topics reached deep into the Defence Against the Dark Arts as well as the Dark Arts themselves, but that had never stopped him before and he wouldn't start being a prude now. Another day passed without any events.

On Saturday the rain finally stopped and for a change Harry returned from the warm-up wet with only perspiration. Variety of books on several inter-related subjects was waiting for him, but he decided to postpone the study and make a small investigation about what was going on in the outside world. With that purpose in mind, he entered McGonagall's office.

"Good morning, Potter," sounded from behind the desk. The Headmistress looked rather gloomy, but there was an undeniable trace of sour amusement in her voice. Harry hadn't expected her to be there.

"Morning, Professor. I'm sorry." He hadn't bothered to knock.

'I should focus on it next time... Honestly, I'm running in and out of here so often that it feels like mine…'

The Headmistress attempted to smile at him reassuringly, but spectacularly failed.

"Can I help you?" she asked. Harry didn't miss the bitterness, now that the source of her entertainment expired.

"I just wondered about Professor Dumbledore... He hasn't made appearance lately." McGonagall rubbed her temples, showing more emotion than in a year of classes together. Or had Harry merely become more perceptive?

"I'm afraid Albus will not be back for the next few days. He insisted upon going into field... By himself." It sounded strangely worried. But Dumbledore was a ghost - it was very unlikely that Voldemort would have another Basilisk in his possession, and Harry had never heard of (or read about) anything else capable of harming ghosts.

"I'm sure he will come back unchanged." McGonagall stared at him questioningly and then it all clicked. She shook her head wearily.

"Of course. He's a spirit, Potter. There is no reason to worry about him." She didn't look like she might get mad anytime soon. Harry decided to try and push it.

"But you do look worried, Professor." He had had luck. McGonagall gestured him to sit down and took a sip from her cup. The liquid inside smelled like the Calming Draught, only little more acidic.

"I am not disturbed because of Albus in the least; he will be just as fine as he was when he left," she said darkly, with a hint of reproach. As though she blamed the ghost, or the man he once had been, of something that troubled her. "I was concerned about the rest of us. It seems, Potter, that I am unable to find a qualified teacher for Transfiguration. And according to Educational Decree Number Twenty-two-"

"Scrimegour has the right to appoint someone. There'll be another Umbridge..." Harry interposed, frowning grimly. They already had been through this once.

'Why does the Ministry have to continuously keep ruining everything that's good in the wizarding world?' he mused, subconsciously scratching the back of his right hand.

"I doubt that she will come back, but the Minister will have no troubles finding somebody else in his staff, who is qualified," she sighed. Harry distinctly saw how her recently-acquired position was eating up on her. She looked like a walking bundle of nerves.

'Well, if she needs somebody to talk to and finds me sufficient...' He didn't really feel like being McGonagall's confidante, and surely he didn't feel like listening to what sort of problems come with being a Headmistress, but he sat still when she continued.

"I would gladly keep teaching, of course, but I hardly have time to sleep as it is. We will have another High Inquisitor, I'm afraid..." It was then when the witch realised who she was talking to and about what, and immediately hushed, giving him an odd look. For a while he thought she was going to be angry, whether with him or herself, but then she sighed and looked down at a pile of parchment-work.

"I'm sorry, Potter. You shouldn't be listening to this." Harry shook his head.

"Don't worry, Professor. I'm afraid I can't help you, but I've heard many things before. Worse things." Then he snickered evilly. "If there is another Inquisitor, feel free to call upon the remnants of Dumbledore's Army. I dare say we are not too worried about getting expelled."

McGonagall inhaled sharply, stared at him in shock for a while, but eventually eased.

"Don't be stupid, Potter."

He flashed her a smile.

"I'm trying, Professor. But it's not coming naturally."

The witch, quite unlike herself, chuckled, and Harry was glad to see he managed to make her smile. Even though she was nothing more than an average-liked Professor to him, it felt good.

"Professor, have you seen Fawkes lately?" Harry asked after a while of watching the Headmistress reading an officially-looking letter. She didn't seem pleased by what she had read.

"No, not in the past week. I sometimes almost believe the bird leads its own campaign... Why do you ask?"

Harry shrugged.

"I guess I'm missing him a bit." Though it wouldn't show, the statement was filled with both irony and honesty, as if Harry himself couldn't work out whether he more liked being with the phoenix or without it. He had some serious thinking to do.

popopopopo

Serious thinking was postponed the moment Harry spotted a small extremely fast object flying straight at him. He swooped to the side and caught the thing as though it was the Golden Snitch. It fluttered its wings senselessly - much like a Snitch would - and let out a pitiful squeak that not only ascertained it was alive, but also that it hurt in Harry's firm grip.

He opened his hand and examined the attacker. It was Pigwidgeon.

Pig tried to stand up, staggered and fell over as he was still dizzy. Harry let him rest on his palm and took him to his bedroom, pleased that he hadn't injured him and thus he didn't need medical help. The tiny owl recovered before they reached the Gryffindor common room and flitted all around Harry.

"What d'ya want?" asked the boy, slightly annoyed after the bird's enthusiastic swirl sent it into the side of his head, and rubbing his stinging ear. When he had held it, it didn't seem like it was carrying anything, however, Pig finally landed on top of Hedwig's vacated cage and stuck out his miniature leg. There was a tiny roll fastened to it.

With an enormous amount of patience Harry managed to retrieve the parchment from the owl, which anon scooped down on a bit of toast left of his breakfast. He was quite content with himself as he managed to return the mail into original size without uttering the incantation aloud, and unrolled what he supposed to be a letter from Ron.

It was a copy of Daily Prophet, as fresh as a second-hand newspaper could be; obviously the sender didn't tarry too long before forwarding it to him. There was a short message, just below the headline, written with violent purple ink.

It wasn't Rons writing. The figures were small and neat; altogether nothing like Ron's horrid scribbling.

Harry, I know you aren't getting news from outside; this might interest you. Ginny

Harry's heart skipped a beat. There was a little doubt the paper really came from her; after all, she had 'borrowed' her brother's owl, though he supposed that term had to be stretched to fit the situation. But... She was thinking of him. She worried. She cared.

And he didn't even bother to send her a note...

Harry was swarmed with a familiar sensation of warmth; he looked around for the phoenix, he stretched out his mind searching for it. Without result. That feeling was coming from him, from his insides. He realised he had felt like that before, even when Fawkes was nowhere in the close proximity. It was something natural.

But it was gone in an instant, as soon as Harry's eyes fell upon the headline of the front-page article. He gasped and sank down on his bed. There was, most unusually, no photograph accompanying the news, though he was grateful for the fact. It probably saved the breakfast of the majority of magical population that morning.

YOU KNOW WHO SEEKS REVENGE

Yesterday afternoon, Mrs Narcissa Malfoy had been found dead in her house. The Healer summoned from St Mungo's Hospital of Magical Maladies and Injuries stated exitus, apparently caused by repeated abuse of the Unbreakable Curses on Mrs Malfoy. The perpetrators are still unknown, but the Auror Office already opened a wide-scale investigation. Although the common opinion is that the murder was committed by 'Death Eaters', Auror Hestia Jones, present at the venue says: "Do you see the Dark Mark anywhere around? I suppose not - so keep your opinions to yourself; you will be informed in due time. Now let me do my job and I let you do yours-"

One of the witnesses, Mrs Zabini, who had visited the site that day answering the deceased Mrs Malfoy's invitation – though still very distraught - speaks: "I came as usually - for the tea – and the house elves at the main gate opened and I went inside and then - I'm sorry, I still can't believe it. I saw Cissa; she lay on the floor and I just knew something has gone wrong."

Curiously, according to a member of Magical Law Enforcement Squad who wishes to remain anonymous, the only son of Mrs Malfoy and her husband, Lucius Malfoy (serving a life sentence in the Prison of Azkaban - for more details see pg. 15), Draco Malfoy, is missing. Last time he was seen by Mr Platt in the company of former family friend and a wanted fugitive Severus Snape, accused of murdering Albus Dumbledore (for more details see pg.13-14). The 'no comment' from a Ministry spokeswitch leaves the public to wild guesses about what really happened at the Malfoy Manor that fateful night. However, it is hard to ignore the obvious connection of the Malfoy family to He Who Must Not Be Named and so e have to ask ourselves: was this a terrible tragedy, a carefully planned brutal murder, or a simple liquidating between the different fractions of Death Eaters?

Harry swallowed hardly. The article explained itself perfectly, as well as the reason why Ginny thought of sending it to him. She was privy to the information he provided after seeing the vision. Which meant, naturally, that all the Weasleys plus Hermione knew as well... Though it didn't really bother him. If Ron had some problems with Harry intending to help Malfoy (if the redhead would figure out that much - Harry didn't fool himself about his friends observing abilities), he could stand up for his cause. He felt somehow stronger, more confident, when he had a clear idea about what he fought for and what he believed in.

Though there was still the fogged Snape-affair.

Harry had to force himself not to think about it. He did not have a clue about what was going on - at least this time he admitted to himself he didn't. He wanted very much to trust his own eyes; he always did before... but that trust turned out to be foolish on many occasions.

As it was now, his brain kept telling him that Snape was a murderer. Even overlooking their history - which featured enough spite for several lives - he did not deserve anything but a cell in Azkaban, as his friend Lucius was given. But if his victim himself didn't share that view... Whatever happened, Harry would always be free to hate that man.

popopopopo

The week passed quickly. It was another Thursday, and Harry was on his way back to the castle after the warm-up, when red, out of breath Tonks caught up with him. After an exchange of biting remarks to each others appearance he somehow brought her to chase him through the corridors, all the way to the Gryffindor common room.

Harry decided that Tonks had a good influence on him. She was about the only person who managed to make him feel carefree, almost like a child, even if it was only for a few minutes of wild race through Hogwarts. He was grateful for her presence. He enjoyed the exercise - with her he gained control of his body faster, as though just the fact that she stood behind him, looking into the mirror over his shoulder was some sort of catalyst. She also suggested that he kept a small hand-glass with him permanently, so he would be able to check on himself at all times. About the noon Tonks forced him to have a lunch with her, despite her having eaten herself through the rest of Harry's birthday sweets. He had a strong suspicion that her stomach was bottomless. Over the food (salmon sandwiches, made and delivered by Dobby again) the talk subsided, so he had time to ponder what did he learn today.

His morphing abilities were booming, considering his limited potential, and Harry already could make himself look like a completely different person. The only problem represented his scar, which stubbornly refused to be covered up. On the other hand, he had managed to relocate it so that it was almost covered by his hair.

Biting off a chunk of sandwich and chewing it with taste, Harry thought back to the time when all the madness started. When Fawkes appeared out of nowhere and took him as his charge, shattering all his plans for a personal war with Voldemort... When he was left virtually alone in the enormous castle... When he so dumbly almost killed himself and then woke up in the hospital wing to be told he was a Metamorphmagus. One of the first things that crossed his mind when he finally comprehended it was... The question he had forgotten to ask the Headmaster.

"Er, Tonks? If you are a Metamorphmagus, how do you know what do you really look like? How you were born?" Harry asked, unable to get straight to the point; rather ascertaining that he did have a point, first.

"Your body responds to what you want to look like, Harry. It means that once you don't have an idea, or when you lose control, it naturally returns to your original form. Like me last year... I had... an emotional problem and somehow it clashed with my morphing ability... But why do you ask?"

He definitely did have a point. His mood steeply sank, but he didn't feel like sharing his dreads with Tonks. She was a good friend, but not quite as close.

"Just curious. So if I lost control over my body it would go back to what I am supposed to look like?" he said, feigning casuality.

"Yep." Harry was worried. After he had drunk the Animagi-triggering substance he had lost control. But when he woke up he looked differently. Not like himself. Was it possible that... That his appearance was his own creation? That it wasn't the original, the real himself? But how? Why?

'And most importantly: What do I really look like?'

After that realisation he wasn't talkative and Tonks noticed something was nagging him. Luckily, though, as he didn't mention anything, she didn't pry. They parted soon thereafter - she going back to Hogsmeade where she was stationed, Harry up to his room to send Ginny a reply. It was grateful, but short. He was too distressed to write a long letter. Apart from that he didn't know what he would put in it, anyway. Thus when Pigwidgeon soared out of the castle, he carried a note miniature even without a Shrinking Charm.

popopopopo

'You are troubled.'

The darkness in the bedroom was tangible. The curtains around Harry's bed were open, and still he didn't see anything but the slightly brighter square shape of the window. He couldn't sleep. He had tried to just lay with closed eyes, he had tried to form lists of ingredients for concrete potions in his mind - which was the most boring activity he could think of - and finally, realising that he won't be able to sleep, he resolved to just staring into that thick heavy darkness.

The familiar, soundless voice was like a ray of golden light, desperately sought by his soul. The corners of his mouth quirked slightly up, though he was far from feeling happy.

"Yes," he replied, disrupting the seeming homogeneity of the night.

'What is vexing you?' asked the bird, filling the room with a flash as it Apparated, for the lack of a better word, somewhere out of the line of Harry's gaze.

He never suspected he might be so glad to be in Fawkes's presence again.

"A lot of things," he said solemnly, sitting up on his bed and stroking the phoenix's long, elegant neck like he used to do years ago. There was something bittersweet in the motion, something that reminded him of things he lost, but which were worth remembering.

'Like?' inquired the bird, shining from the shadows with the colour of hot embers. Then it started singing, very, very quietly, strengthening the peaceful impression of the scene. For a moment Harry considered telling Fawkes what irked him, but then changed his mind and went for the second subject that had been on his mind lately.

"You have been gone for a long time."

The phoenix perched on his thigh and rested its head against his shoulder. Its warm weight distinctly reminded Harry of Ginny.

"I have. I was needed elsewhere and you, my fledgling, have done well on your own. And here I am, because you need me now. So why don't you hasten and tell me what clouds your mind?" Harry softly chuckled and resumed stroking Fawkes's neck. Being referred to as 'fledgling' brought a mixture of pride and discomfort.

"What happened?" he asked quietly. The phoenix took a long time to formulate its answer, as though it was selecting what to divulge and what better keep secret.

'Voldemort returned to Britain, with fresh reinforcements. He didn't need the Malfoys anymore... not with Albus dead, Lucius in prison and both Narcissa and Draco reluctant to obey his orders.'

Harry grimly nodded. He had tried to avoid making guesses about his vision, but it was kind of hard with so little excitement to distract him. Such a turn of events was close to what he had pictured.

"The Prophet wrote that Narcissa is dead."

'Yes, that is true. She was tortured and killed by Tom himself, so it appears. But she, with significant help of yourself and two more members of my Order succeeded in saving her son.'

Harry let out a gasp. So he was right about this, too. Draco was alive. For some reason, not comprehensible to him a bit more than before, he was glad. And he was glad that he could help, too.

'In a way you are a bit like Albus, Harry. He does not look at the history, either, but at the future.'

'I do look at the history. But all I can feel for Malfoy right now is pity. I know it doesn't help him-' Harry defended after receiving a reproachful glance, "I have an idea what is it like to lose parents. I know how it feels when your mother dies to save you. But I can't simply not see that he let Voldemort force him into... Into what he did.'

Fawkes chirped. He agreed with some of Harry's points, but objected against others. Anyway, it was purposeless to argue. He could change the way he talked and slightly alter the way he thought, but he couldn't do anything about his feelings.

"Where is Dumbledore - er, Professor Dumbledore now?"

'If he's not in the Black Library... I'm afraid only he knows.' Yes, that was exactly like the good old Headmaster, from the days when he was alive. Unpredictable and unstoppable, no matter how much of his wits was borrowed from his familiar. He had obviously picked up a lot.

"What is he working on?"

'Well, right now he's trying to determine what exactly are we standing against: how many new Death Eaters has Tom recruited, their identities and exceptional skills. It takes a lot of travelling and though he can take shortcuts, his inability to Apparate obstructs him greatly.' Harry took a glance at his new watch - another birthday present. He had yet trouble discerning what all the planets and hands were indicating, but grasped that it was almost two in the morning in the middle of August. Still better than nothing; though why couldn't wizards be satisfied with a simple face remained a mystery to him.

"So, with Dumbledore most of the time gone, who's running the Order?" asked Harry. Then a picture flashed through his mind - weary and distressed Headmistress sitting at the table in her office. "McGonagall?"

Fawkes screeched in protest.

'Poor lass; she has more than enough with the Headmastership as it is. Do you have any idea what kind of trouble it was to persuade Ministry to reopen Hogwarts for the next year? She's done an admirable job.

No, that honour went to William Weasley - a skilful young man that is - and even with having to take care of a wife, he has a plenty of time along his 'desk-job'.'

Harry shook his head in shock.

"I never knew that McGonagall had to do that. But you can't blame me - after all it was you who severed almost all my ties to the outside world."

Fawkes apparently didn't like his tone, because the next moment Harry was experiencing the sensation of effects of a Canary Cream. It was irritating, because his feathers were itching where he, in reality, had no feathers at all. He briefly wondered whether the phoenix ever ate a Canary Cream, or simply birds normally felt like that.

"All right, I give in, winged Master." Fawkes let out a chirp and released him. But Harry wasn't amused. If truth be told, in his mind he was once again going through the late night conversation. Something, like two pieces of puzzle, begged to be put together. He searched, searched... searched... Click.

"It was Snape. Snape was one of the 'two other' Order members you spoke of," he stated in awe. Fawkes didn't deny it.

"Of course, 'last he was seen by Mr Platt in the company of former family friend and a wanted fugitive Severus Snape'..." Harry wearily rubbed his forehead. A dull headache beset him.

'So that damn bastard is still working for the Order! How could you let him? After all he had done? After he- he- killed Dumbledore?'

Fawkes screeched angrily and dumped several unpleasant sensations on him, but Harry didn't care. He didn't want Snape working for the Order and to Hell with all Dumbledore's reasoning! He didn't want to see the man again, he didn't want to be forced to look at that sneer, to be repeated how worthless he was... to be forced to relive the memory from the Astronomy Tower... He wished Snape to go somewhere far, far away or - better - die. Just drop dead. Somewhere in the middle of the street, so he wouldn't have to see him without being allowed to curse him.

Dumbledore was dead! And to everyone else it seemed only half-true because of his lingering ghostly presence, but Harry had been there, he had witnessed it. He had heard the Headmaster plead and be cold-bloodedly killed... Maybe he could have believed Dumbledore's far-fetched explanation, but for the look on Snape's face as he did it. That expression of revulsion and hatred he had almost forgotten appeared renewed in front of his eyes.

Fawkes squeaked, low, disappointedly. Harry sobbed. He didn't know what it was with him, he cried, yet no tears were coming out. But it wasn't because he was sad. He was frustrated, being denied his just revenge...

'Now you're not the least bit like Albus, Harry. I expect you to do your duties tomorrow as always, plus you will have an Occlumency lesson.'

He left and Harry felt so much worse than before. His life, all that he pictured he could finally gain, was crumbling in front of him. He angered Fawkes, and rather badly, so he could count on some nasty chastisement tomorrow. He was prevented from taking revenge on somebody who had hurt him beyond repair.

And worst of all, he wasn't sure who he was anymore.

popopopopo

Harry woke up sore and late. He trudged downstairs, remembering Fawkes's orders, but didn't have a clue how he was going to manage the warm-up, feeling drained before he even started. He must have done it somehow (he supposed that his magic had helped a lot), because some hour later he was trailing back.

His eyes were focused on the ground, they had been ever since he had awaken, which caused that he hardly remembered anything but the green blotch of grass moving under his feet. That was also the reason why he didn't notice the ghost, clambering through the portrait hole, and passed through him. Immediately he started shivering, his magical energy gone as well as physical.

Harry looked up. Dumbledore was staring down at him, twinkle-less, pensive.

"I wanted to speak to you, Harry," he said quietly, in a voice that indicated nothing good. The boy weakly looked at the semitransparent wrinkled face and waited, feeling too numb to form a response.

"I've heard you had a disagreement with Fawkes last night."

Harry cringed, but nodded. Faintly.

"I heard you have somehow noticed that Severus is still working for the Order. I can imagine you don't like the arrangements-"

"You're right. I don't. There are many arrangements lately that I don't like. But I have a duty to do, don't I?" said Harry quietly, though with clearly audible sarcasm. Dumbledore frowned menacingly.

"I offered you understanding and compassion, Harry, but if you are too stubborn to accept- well, have it your way. I do not wish you to question my decisions. I don't feel any need to explain myself to you. And whether you like it or not, Severus will keep working for me.

I love you as my own, but I won't let anyone, not even you destroy what I strove for almost all of my life - and what I died for - because of a petty grudge-" Harry sharply inhaled. This wasn't Dumbledore, was it? He examined the otherwise familiar face, wearing an unfamiliar expression. It was a low blow from the Headmaster, and, moreover, an undeserved one. It wasn't like Harry had gone to him to complain or argue. He didn't request anything, neither further explanation, nor banishing Snape.

He didn't ask for anything. He obeyed every command they gave him. He learned.

And still it wasn't good enough. It was the same as with the Dursleys. It was always going to be as with the Dursleys. Until he died - whether of long age or at Voldemort's hands. Would Dumbledore, the man Harry always looked up to, even glance back and notice?

He felt tears well in his eyes, perhaps those, which so obstinately refused to come last night. He spoke again, quietly, almost whispering.

"A petty grudge, sir? Nothing... Nothing I ever did was good enough for him. I knew it won't be and still I tried; for six long years I've tried to please him... I've even endured the Occlumency lessons... I tried... as hard as I could... I've let him sneer at the worst memories of my childhood and he always paid me back in humiliation, deducting house points and giving me detentions…

I didn't do anything to him and he hated me since the first moment I've entered Hogwarts. And then he murders you and I am supposed to smile and say 'Good morning, sir, how did your yesterday's errand go'? Well, I don't think I am quite capable of that.

Sorry for being so weak, Professor."

He said all of it evenly, though he probably didn't have enough energy left for screaming if he tried. There was no need to scream. Dumbledore was mad, anyway.

'How death can change a person...' Harry thought sadly, still staring up at the angry face of man he had come to admire so much. Where had all the geniality gone? All the manners?

"Harry, I am dead and tired with your melodramatics. Go to your room and think about it, and when you have come to a conclusion and feel you are able to present it calmly come back. Good day." With those words the ex-Headmaster glided away through a wall. Harry felt soundless, painless tears flowing down his cheeks. Inside he ached.

'...I never imagined this when he said that 'most ghosts are bitter'...'

popopopopo

Don't forget to review, please, please… I need a lot of motivation!