Secrets and Suprises. Chapter Two: Worries

Disclaimer: Does a little dance I own NOTHING! JK Rowling is a Goddess and I am nothing but a lowlife.

Warnings: Teenage angst to the max. Slash, eventually. I am a whore for hurt and comfort.

Harry waited after class, as instructed, nearly quaking in his shoes as he waited for his fellow students to leave and to be inevitably sentenced to his death. Classes were over for the evening; he had an hour of study time now and then dinner.

"See you at dinner, Harry…" Hermione said quietly, placing a comforting hand on her raven-haired friend's shoulder a moment before hurrying out the door.

"Yeah, mate…" Ron nodded and quirked his lips in the way he did. Buck up, bud, is what they said.

To Harry, their voices were a mile away. Somewhere inside of him he was touched by their concern, something dwelling in the cold inside warmed to know that his friends cared about him. He had been acting so differently lately, he felt rotten for what he couldn't tell them. He knew his best friends wanted the old Harry back, the Harry that didn't shoulder the world's responsibility, the Harry who had fire behind bright green eyes. Guilt seeped through his every pore, killing the warmth of his friends' love. I don't deserve them.

"Potter, Potter." McGonagall's voice cut through his thoughts like a knife.

"What? Oh, sorry, professor, I just…" Harry shrugged, helpless. Again, he felt bad. He liked McGonagall's class, he knew that he was strong in transfiguration, and he knew he let McGonagall down every time he was late.

Something softened on the woman's face. My God, she thought, the boy looks like he's going to cry. "Welcome back to earth, Mister Potter. Now," She folded her hands in front of her on the desk, pursing her lips and giving him a sincere look. "You know, Harry, how I value being prompt, yes?"

"Yes, ma'am." He stared at his shoelaces. "I'm really, really sorry about this."

McGonagall blinked. "Potter, are you quite alright? If this happened couple months ago you would have been spilling out an excuse before I could even say 'boo.'" She did care for the boy, in an obscure way. Pity wasn't what she felt, but she didn't think that anyone should have to bear the burden that Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, was born in to.

Harry looked up, stunned, surprised by her question. "I, er, well, I'm fine, I guess. Yeah. Fine." He nodded.

"Hm." She didn't believe him. Dark circles under his eyes suggested that "fine" was nowhere near an explanation. Their eyes connected briefly and McGonagall found herself more than a little worried. The look in the lanky student's eyes said, "Please, don't ask anything more, because I might tell you." It was a plea. A plea that she wasn't sure Harry knew he was giving her. Blinking hard a moment, she felt a little off balance. "Well, though I am inspired to take pity on you, we can't let tardiness go unexcused. I will see you in my office on Tuesdays and Thursdays, six-oh-clock in the evening sharp, for the next month. You start tomorrow."

Harry stifled a groan, but he knew it could be worse. Much worse. "Okay, professor." He turned to go, grabbing his heavy book bag on the way out. He almost hesitated, almost stopped and collapsed to his knees like he wanted to, scream, cry, bear his arms and his soul so that maybe someone, anyone, would have to be stronger than him, for once. He thought about it, and then an almost audible sigh escaped his lips as he fought his better nature and trudged out the door.

Minerva McGonagall didn't know what to do. The state of young Harry Potter disconcerted her to the point of being much like a worrisome mother. How do I reach out to a troubled teen? Frowning, she decided to wait. She could talk to Harry the nights he had to be here. Indeed, there was time. Still, though, she had to fight the terrible gnawing at her insides, the feeling that something just wasn't right about her favorite student.