A/N: Finally, my own writing. :) (*does a happy dance*)

In the letter at the end of this chapter, the bold words are the parts that Harry wrote. The rest was written by Hermione.

Chapter 1: Penitence

The portraits sat silent for a long while after the former headmaster had comfortably spoken his piece. Phineas Nigellus looked fully prepared to continue ranting in his cold, self-satisfied manner, but for reasons unknown to Harry, the old headmaster said nothing more. This attempt was not the only one made by the wizard. Many more near-speeches appeared to be on the tip of his tongue, yet every time he tried, something held him back. Other portraits began to notice the barely-held tongue of their fellow, as Harry vaguely noticed. Still, none said anything. And Harry remained standing there, eager to go, desperate to run until his legs tired out, desperate for some antidote to his debilitating guilt and grief.

How much time passed in this manner, Harry did not know. What he did know was that a 'click' startled him half out of his mind as he whirled around to face the source of the noise, brandishing his wand in the same moment. Dumbledore's office door was opening slowly and silently, but for the click of the lock which he had undoubtedly just heard. The action unnerved Harry until a glance toward a clock, one which he didn't remember Dumbledore owning, proved that the hour had ended. The headmaster had instructed him to seek out Madame Pomfrey once that hour came up.

"Ah, detained by the Minister as always," an unknown portrait sighed from behind Harry, but he paid it little mind. The door was open and he was free to run from this as he had wanted to.

Startled squawks escaped from several portraits as the green-eyed youth bolted skittishly out the door and down the already-moving staircase. Barely had the gargoyle slid aside a foot when Harry propelled himself through the opening and pelted wildly through the corridors. For the relatively brief time it took to run down to the hospital wing, his mind was almost as free and uncluttered as when he was on his Firebolt. But just as his body would catch up with itself at journey's end, so would his mind. It was just not something he could bear. Instead of stopping in the doorway to the wing, Harry actually ran to the end of the ward, amazed to find Madame Pomfrey already in the beginning of tending to his wounded friends. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Luna, Neville; they were all there. No one else was, however; no Order members, no Ministry officials, no Hogwarts staff aside from the nurse…

"Mr. Potter!" she scolded indignantly to his sliding stop next to her, her eyes scorching him in her fury. "Disturbing your injured friends like this! Do settle yourself down!"

Harry ignored her point-blank and begged her, "Let me help, Madam Pomfrey." Sirius's fall tried to invade his head, but he pushed it away with worry for his friends, for whose injuries he was also at fault.

"Nonsense!" the mediwitch scowled at him, wielding her wand like a sword in his face, though he did not flinch back. "Set on a bed at once! I will see to you in a moment."

"Please, let me help," Harry begged a little more desperately. "It's my fault there like this. I dragged them into this mess! Just let me do something to try and fix my mistake. Please!"

Whatever the witch was expecting him to say, it was clearly not that. Her mouth fell open in surprise and she stared for but a moment, before shaking herself forcibly.

"Very well, Mr. Potter," Pomfrey answered in a surprisingly soothing voice, turning to point at a greenish-tinged bottle with an orange tag which was lying next to some wet-looking bandages. "I have spread that potion on those bandages. Wrap them around Mr. Weasley's arms just tight enough that they touch his skin."

Harry nodded quickly and rushed over to his best mate's side, wasting no time in picking up the bandages and beginning to wrap them around Ron's pale, freckled arm as Madame Pomfrey hurried further down the line of beds. The brain had already been removed from Ron's body at the Ministry, no doubt. Great welts had taken over the skin on his arms in many places, but nothing else looked terribly out of place thankfully.

"What did that thing do to him?" Harry found himself quietly asking the mediwitch as she checked Luna over. The woman glanced to him, where he was wrapping up his best mate's arms, and then back down to Luna.

"I'm not precisely sure of the in-depth details," she answered distractedly, "but its thoughts attacked him, at any rate. Thoughts take longer to heal than normal wounds, as I'm sure you have realized."

The inflection of the last phrase caught him off guard, but Madame Pomfrey did not look at him again. In spite of that, he could only imagine that she knew exactly what thoughts needed healing in his own head. He shook himself of the thought and focused on his friend once more.

Somehow, despite his pain and guilt, the task Harry had been assigned was almost soothing on his frayed and tangled nerves. He had to pay attention and concentrate closely so as to get the bandages to wrap just right, though he had no doubt Madame Pomfrey would later straighten them out with a simple wave of her wand. Moving around to Ron's other side allowed Harry an unimpeded view of his other friends, though he only glanced up when he was sure he had a good handle on the wrappings.

Luna looked fairly well, save the fact that she was unconscious and may have had interior damage he didn't know about, though Harry hoped fervently that the latter was not true. In the next bed, Ginny's ankle was propped up on two pillows, still looking nastily out of shape, and she was also unconscious as the mediwitch began to rearrange the bones and work the injury into a trice. Beside Ginny, Neville's nose was still horridly swelled and bloodied. They all looked pale, but mostly all right he supposed, and Harry breathed a tiny sigh of relief for this small favor as he finished the last wrap on Ron's injuries and carefully set down the arm he held. Harry's green eyes were now drawn most to the head of bushy brown hair in the last occupied bed, the one beside Neville.

Hermione was so pale she could almost have passed for a ghost. Sweat beaded her forehead and her breaths were too short for Harry's liking. More frightening than these observations, however, was her torso. Her skin was not obvious through the clothing, but with the size of the gash in her robes and the seeming wetness of the fabric, he didn't dare imagine anything less for her body's condition. He dare not get his hopes up for anything less than the worst-case scenario…

But Hermione had to live. She just had to. Harry had been so horrified when the curse hit her. Nothing but fear flooded him as she fell to the floor in shock and just lay there, unmoving. How couldn't he have screamed out in terror for his best friend? Neville's level-headed check of Hermione's pulse had only just kept Harry sane. Worried mostly for Hermione now that he could see how much worse off she seemed to be, Harry rose slowly and walked tentatively over to her side while Madame Pomfrey was putting Neville's nose back in its rightful place on his features. Sitting gingerly beside the brightest witch of their year, Harry reached out a hesitant hand to lay atop Hermione's still fingers. They were cold, her fingers, and Harry frowned deeply at the fact.

Moments later Pomfrey was standing over Hermione, too, and Harry could not watch as she healed his friend. He turned away with a small cringe, knowing this was all his fault and he could not blame anyone else for it. More minutes passed, with barely any sounds except for the mediwitch's muttered spells and charms and the rustling of her robes.

"Come along, Mr. Potter," the nurse's voices startled him as he turned around to face her, pleased to find Hermione's robes now sealed and dried as if they had never been torn by that dreadful curse. "Into the next bed."

"Is she – will she – I mean –" Harry spluttered nonsensically as he tried to ask if Hermione would survive, tight eyes drawn again to her inert form.

"She will be fully recovered in several days, Mr. Potter," Pomfrey's tone was indeed gentle as she explained, though firm as usual. "No need to worry. Now, into bed with you."

He allowed the mediwitch to check whatever small injuries he had sustained and took whatever potions she insisted on without complaint, settling into the bed that was next to Hermione. For some time, hours most likely, he just lay in the bed, mind rocketing back and forth over everything that had happened at the Ministry, except for that one space in time wherein he had lost his family. Pomfrey forced food into him at lunch, but otherwise left him alone until dinner came, where she plied him with more nourishment. The hours in-between were again spent in his less-than-happy thoughts. For that night, the mediwitch gifted him with dreamless sleep potion. He was almost greedy, gulping it down as though it were the last batch ever to be made. As darkness enclosed his sight, Harry wondered how he would survive the summer without it.

In the morning, the black-haired youth awoke slowly, disoriented by his somewhat unfamiliar surroundings; the white everywhere was at first disconcerting. He realized why they were so unfamiliar rather quickly, however; it was because everything appeared blurred beyond distinction. Groping on the side table to find his glasses on the corner, Harry finally put them on, looking to his left with surprise to see that Ginny, Luna, and Neville were gone from the wing. Ron and Hermione remained, both in the grip of unconsciousness in the same beds, three empty ones in-between them. Through the windows, sunshine filtered in meekly, pronouncing it as either very cloudy afternoon or very early morning.

Harry saw Madame Pomfrey bustle out of her office before she even spoke, but then he also noticed a half-concealed figure sitting in the room she had just exited. All he saw was what appeared to be a flash of black before the door was closed from his eyes and Pomfrey was standing beside his bed.

"How do you feel, Mr. Potter?" she inquired in the typical brusque fashion, waving her wand to diagnose his health for herself.

"Fine," he lied. Well, it wasn't exactly a lie, was it? Physically, he felt fine. Maybe a bit tired, but he obviously hadn't had a very restful couple of days, either. Emotionally, though… That was something he didn't want to focus on too much just then.

"Hm," Pomfrey was only mildly appeased, he could see that, but she didn't press him. "Just rest, then. You need it still. It's early yet this morning. Only six o'clock."

"Where are the others?" he couldn't help asking.

"They are all in good health now," the witch answered businesslike. "Mr. Longbottom's nose is good as new and Miss Lovegood is perfectly all right. Miss Weasley will be in the trice for a little while, but nothing serious. They've no need to stay in a sick ward, so I sent them on their way."

His retort that he was in the same boat died on his lips almost as soon as he made to say it. She was allowing him to stay for his best friends; he shouldn't complain. Madame Pomfrey nodded jerkily, as if she knew what he was going to say, and swiftly retreated back into her office, shutting the door behind her. With a sigh, Harry tried to rise from the bed, but found himself weaker than he'd imagined. The teenager promptly fell back into the pillow.

In the silence that descended, Harry began to wonder over Dumbledore's failure to return early that morning. The young man felt offended in way, sort of betrayed that his mentor did not deem it important to talk with him. Even after what happened to Sirius – No. He wouldn't think about that today. He would wait until he could handle it, until the balloon of grief inside of him didn't feel like exploding in one vicious burst. It wasn't like he didn't have all summer to think about it. Of course, that particular thought brought on more bitterness than he'd ever felt before. Another sigh escaped him, and it wasn't until he heard someone else sigh for the second time that Harry jumped up, regardless of his weak energy. Whipping his head around to his two best friends, Harry could tell it wasn't Ron. Ron was half-snoring and not at all sighing in any way. Hermione was a different story.

Although he knew she was not awake yet, Harry forced himself to rise and then immediately seated himself on the neighboring bed, reaching nervously for Hermione's hand. It was much warmer than it had been the night before. Whatever Madame Pomfrey was doing, he was eternally grateful for it. Hermione sighed again in her sleep, but Harry regretfully noticed the half-pained roughness that tinged it. It would take much longer for his bushy-haired friend to recover than the others. Possibly longer than Ron, at least in the matter of easy movement.

Harry found that he was unable to leave Hermione's side now, reaching up to gently brush her brown locks away from her face and leaving his hand there for longer than he ever would have before. She was just so weak and vulnerable right then, he couldn't help himself from somehow soothing her, even if she didn't realize it. He hated it and he hated himself for bringing it on her like this. She deserved a better friend than he was; a friend who didn't lead into her such deadly situations without thought for her well-being. And of course, Hermione had been the one to realize just what Voldemort might be doing. She, who had found out the truth and tried to convince him of it, was the one who ended up hurt the most. He was so stupid for ever going to the Ministry! Rage at his own foolishness welled up inside Harry's brain. Loyal, courageous, compassionate Hermione had suffered for his foolishness.

Harry rarely moved from Hermione's bedside for the rest of the morning, except those times when Madame Pomfrey forced him back into his own bed with a glare that almost matched Professor McGonagall's. Almost, but not quite. Harry suspected Madam Pomfrey admired his continued nerve and sincere dedication to his friend, but was resolved to have him eat meals, if nothing else.

Sometime before lunch earlier that day, he had actually fallen asleep for an hour or so, waking up to find the nurse tending to a wildly paranoid Dolores Umbridge, whose once-immaculate (albeit often-sickening) appearance was so disheveled she could have given even Mundungus Fletcher a run for his money. Leaves and twigs scattered in her ratted hair didn't seem to want to come out and the shoes were missing from her bloated feet. Umbridge's usual vomit-inducing pink outfit was now filthy in the physical sense as well as the mental. Harry could only guess that it was dirt and grime from the forest floor turning her clothing the color of mud and green muck. Scratches – some shallow and some rather deep – littered her skin extremely liberally, something Harry found vaguely satisfying after the words she had forced him to engrave on his hand.

The slightest sound that resembled a centaur's hoof would send Umbridge careening into a pit of schizophrenia. Harry had accidentally dropped his wand on the floor while dealing with his lunch tray and the mild clatter, while miniscule, had driven the former High Inquisitor to a hysterical outburst that forced Madame Pomfrey to keep her unconscious more often than not afterward. Not that Harry was at all disturbed by this turnout; it was quite an improvement.

Night finally crawled its way across the sky, finding Harry once again sitting at Hermione's side. Only this time, Pomfrey allowed it; in fact, she had encouraged it. According to the mediwitch's diagnosis, once she had given Hermione another dosage of her many potions, his friend was supposed to wake up. A friend to be there would be a good idea, Pomfrey had said.

Harry sat in suspense as the witch gave Hermione her last potion, subconsciously holding his breath as he waited for those brown eyes to look upon the world again. It seemed an age before he finally got his wish.

Lashes fluttering delicately and rapidly against her still-pale skin, Hermione attempted to take a deep breath, halted in pain, and then let it out quickly. Madame Pomfrey performed some spell and Harry's friend breathed much easier. Harry released a shaky breath of his own that he hadn't realized he was holding in the first place, also easing up his grip on Hermione's hand. Much to both his and the nurse's relief and happiness, Hermione at last opened her eyes, blinking away the grogginess of such a long, uninterrupted rest. Brown eyes became clear, lucid, and alert after another moment.

"Welcome back, Miss Granger," Madame Pomfrey smiled professionally as she cast another diagnostic spell, but was plainly pleased that her patient was really on the road to recovery now. "You may talk with Mr. Potter for a brief time. No excitement. You are still healing."

Hermione nodded slowly, turning away from the nurse to catch Harry's eye. As the mediwitch walked towards Ron's bed to check on him, Harry could see the apprehension in his best friend's gaze. The others were on her mind, of that he had no doubt, as was the outcome of the battle. A sting in the vicinity of his heart reminded him violently of the outcome, but he forced it away for the moment.

He waited for Pomfrey to go into her office and close the door before speaking. Seeing that she did, he sighed in some relief for their privacy.

"Hey," he finally said, keeping his voice quiet but smiling slightly. If his relief showed through visibly, then he couldn't help that.

"Hi, Harry," she whispered, clearing her throat just enough to strengthen her voice somewhat. Her slight wince made him flinch guiltily. "How long…?"

"It's Saturday," he answered the unfinished question. "A little before dinner time, I reckon."

"What happened?" she asked a bit fearfully, but bravely as was her habit, brows furrowed in concern.

"Luna was just fine," he answered perfunctorily, feeling a bit like a machine as he recited the facts the nurse had offered him throughout the day, "Neville's nose is fixed, and Ginny's in a trice for a while. Ron's still knocked out, but the welts are healing as well as they can. He's the only other –"

"Welts?" Hermione interrupted, looking a bit panicked, glancing to each side in search of their mutual best friend. Her gaze lingered worriedly on Ron's bandaged arms once she found him. "What do you mean?"

"Where the brain latched onto him," Harry explained dutifully, feeling awful, "it left welts. It was attacking him with its thoughts, so Madame Pomfrey says. It'll take a little longer for that to heal than a normal injury would, but he'll be okay. She thinks he'll wake up in a day or so."

'Oh," Hermione sighed her partial relief, relaxing back into the bed. It was then, trying to avoid her eyes, that Harry realized he was still holding her hand in his own. Any other time, he might have blushed. "Are you okay, Harry? How did we get out?"

"I'm fine. The Order came," Harry dully reported, wavering in the face of reliving that moment… that awful, dreadful moment when he'd lost another member of his family. He tried his best to withhold the shudder that swept over him. Hermione at least deserved the truth about the other events that took place. She'd suffered for it, after all. "Neville and I were the only ones left conscious when they got there. We helped fight and then Lupin was trying to get us to leave…"

Sirius flashed before his eyes, but no words escaped him. Something stung the backs of his eyes, but he did not contemplate it long. He needed to divert his attention elsewhere or he would lose it.

"Voldemort was in the Atrium," Harry went on to say, leaving Hermione with furrowed brows at the abrupt change in scenery that he had described and the pause he'd taken. "Then Dumbledore came and they dueled. Voldemort vanished all of a sudden and then – then he – took over... I couldn't – He just took control –"

"He possessed you," Hermione breathed frightfully, enforcing calm over herself that Harry fervently admired and wished he could emulate. "Are you all right? Did he hurt you?"

"It was… like when my scar hurts, but worse. A lot worse." That was an understatement of gross proportions, but he ignored the fact for that moment in time.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione's eyes were glassy from potential tears and Harry squeezed her hand comfortingly. "How did you get free of him?"

"I don't really know," Harry confessed truthfully. Honestly, he had no idea what had made Voldemort break his hold. All the young wizard remembered was thinking of Sir— no. Not again. Not that. It was too soon. "But he was trying to get Dumbledore to kill me—"

Hermione gasped loudly in horror, holding her free hand up to her mouth while wincing at the movements she was making.

"Yeah," Harry mumbled with a self-deprecating shrug. "But then Voldemort broke away from me. I still don't know why. And then Dumbledore sent him off with a flea in his ear. Oh, but not before the Ministry showed up at last. Fudge saw Voldemort with his own eyes. Can't refute the truth now, not with all the witness that were there. Then Dumbledore sent me to his office with a portkey; he told me to wait an hour and if he wasn't back, then I should come down here. He never came, so…"

He gestured at the room carelessly with his free hand, as if to say 'Well, here I am.'

Silence overcame the two of them after a while and Harry was wary of the thoughtful look on his friend's features, which he saw whenever he chanced glancing at her.

"There's something you're not telling me," she astutely observed, eyeing him shrewdly in spite of her still-weak countenance.

"What that's supposed to mean?" He easily allowed his natural defensiveness to the fore, furrowing his eyebrows, which only caused her more suspicion. He turned away from her wise, keen eyes, unable to stand it as she stared up at him.

"It's all wrong," she announced suddenly, biting her lip in anxiety. "You're keeping something back and I'm afraid of what it might be. When you hold something in, it's usually very bad or very stupid. Sometimes both. But right now… I think it's something very bad. I wish it wasn't, but… you're so… sullen, Harry. It scares me."

The last three words were whispered shakily, finally causing Harry to turn around and face his best friend's wide-eyed look. She was truly afraid of what he was withholding. All that did was enforce his belief that he couldn't tell her about Sir— the reason he went after Bellatrix Lestrange, yet. Hermione was still rather fragile, so why get her upset when she's still so unwell?

"You're reading too much into it." Even as he said it, Harry knew Hermione would not be satisfied with such a response.

"Reading too much into it," she scoffed, waving his excuse away as if it were an annoying fly. Her wince was painful to see. "Don't even try that, Harry. We know each other better than that, I should hope."

The dark-haired teen sighed heavily, but resignedly. "Not yet, Hermione. Just…" But he could only shake his head. He was not ready to say it. Maybe he never would be. He could barely think it now.

"All right, Harry," she sighed herself, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear and squeezing his hand with the other. "I'll be here when you're ready, okay?"

"Sure," he reluctantly agreed and they lapsed into silence. He tried once to pull his hand away, feeling a bit awkward, but Hermione wasn't having any of that. Instead of arguing, he just settled a bit more comfortably on the bed until Madame Pomfrey corralled him back into his own.

Both he and Hermione ate little for their dinner, causing their caretaker to become a touch irritable for the rest of the night. Anytime Harry and Hermione attempted to talk, the mediwitch would bear down on them like a den mother. The quiet and stillness drove the two friends to sleep quickly, the last thing in their vision being each other's eyes as the darkness encroached.

With more potions and Madame Pomfrey's constant care, Hermione was able to sit up with real energy the next afternoon. Thanks to this progress, the nurse had even allowed Harry to go and gather some books and other things to keep the two of them busy after lunch. Harry was pleased to see his friend's curiosity was sharp as usual and the two of them got into quite a discussion about Umbridge, once Hermione noticed her presence on the other side of the room. Well, if he was honest, Harry knew it was more of a whispered bashing than an outright discussion, but that was a technicality where Umbridge was concerned.

"I wonder how Professor McGonagall is doing," Hermione wondered aloud concernedly.

"Hopefully very well," he intoned bitterly. Not towards Professor McGonagall, of course. No, his bitterness was directed towards her cowardly attackers. The Head of Gryffindor had been jumped in a completely heartless and unfair manner. No, life was not fair, but the attack on his transfiguration professor was just asinine and proved how sick the Ministry was becoming, in addition to the other marks of insanity they had been partaking of.

It was no surprise to Harry that this subject had come up while they were talking about Umbridge. He was just as worried as Hermione was about McGonagall, but after the Ministry – well, his Head of House just hadn't been at the forefront of his mind. There was a twinge of guilt in his mind about that. McGonagall had, after all, been trying to save Hagrid when she was attacked. Plus, there were plenty of other things to her credit that should make him care about her welfare. Harry should have been worried about her more than he had been. He wondered if he could write to her…

It would give him something to do and Hermione would be pleased to add her own sentiments to it, he was certain. Ron probably wouldn't understand the need, so Harry had no qualms about writing the letter while the redhead was still out.

"Why don't we write Professor McGonagall?" Harry suggested rather suddenly, surprising even himself with how eager he was to do this.

Hermione looked up in shock, blinking owlishly for a moment before she shook herself from the confusion. "You actually want to write her a letter? A sort of… get-well message?"

"Exactly," Harry shrugged, not seeing the problem. Except that it was him suggesting it, of course. Suggestions like this weren't really normal for Harry. There was just something about it that felt right, felt like the good thing to do. "She's done a lot for all of us. And after trying to save Hagrid, she deserves a warm letter, don't you think?"

"Of course!" Hermione burst with, still looking mildly stunned even as her excitement took over. "Do you think she's still in St. Mungo's? It hasn't been that long…"

At that, Harry had to think for a moment. It had been approximately four days since McGonagall had been stunned. More like three, if you considered that it had been nighttime when she was attacked. No matter what he'd seen magic do, the teenage wizard did not believe that such a grievous injury would have healed in a mere three or four days.

"It's only been a few days," he settled, "I'd guess she is… But I'll ask Madame Pomfrey and make sure."

Hermione nodded as Harry rose from the bed and headed over to the mediwitch's office. One knock and she was at the door, looking mildly peeved at him being up and about.

"S – sorry," he stumbled a bit on his words, nervous now that he was faced with her raised brow and demanding expression. "I – we wanted to ask… Is Professor McGonagall still in St. Mungo's?"

"Why?" the nurse was immediately suspicious of his question, which only made him more nervous. He swallowed anxiously.

"Well, we – er – we wanted to write her a letter. You know, sort of a get well thing…"

The gray-haired witch was taken aback, but Harry must have said the right thing because her eyes looked glassy all of a sudden and a small smile actually took up residence her features.

"That's very kind of you two," said Pomfrey quietly, apparently not wanting them overheard. "Yes, I'm afraid the professor is still in St. Mungo's."

"How is she?" asked Harry just as quietly.

"As well as can be expected after such an experience," the woman sighed. "She won't be leaving for a quite number of days. Although I'm afraid once she is awake, she will be fighting that decision adamantly."

Harry had to bite back a grin at the thought. No, he couldn't imagine Professor McGonagall would allow herself to be stuck in the hospital for very long, if she could help it. Pomfrey didn't miss his near-smile, but she only shook her head exasperatedly before adding in a very low voice, "I'm also afraid that her mail passes through a manual check. If you'd prefer the letter to arrive discreetly, I can hand it to her personally. I'll be visiting briefly, later tonight."

Pomfrey knew more than he imagined she would about his and Hermione's idea. Certainly she understood their need for some measure of secrecy. He didn't like the idea of someone reading the letter, particularly with so much publicity about 'the Harry Potter' going around the Wizarding World. If someone caught wind of him writing to his head of house, the press would go wild, he was sure.

"That would be great," Harry agreed gladly to the suggestion.

"I warn you, she may not even be awake to read it for a few days," the mediwitch cautioned him.

"We'll just have to be patient," he agreed. It wasn't like they had a choice in when the professor would heal. And besides, Harry was sure McGonagall's patience would be far shorter than theirs in this situation.

"Let me know when you're finished, then," Madam Pomfrey nodded once, back to her businesslike persona as she stepped into her office once more.

"Did you want to write it together?" Hermione inquired once he returned with his information.

Harry nodded his agreement easily as he bent to get parchment, quill, and ink from his bag, which he had retrieved on his trip to the dormitory earlier that day. He wasn't the most eloquent of people in these sorts of situations. Hermione's assistance would really smooth the letter out quite a lot.

He settled in next to Hermione on her bed, both their backs to the metal rods which stood as a headboard, and while he held the parchment on a book across their raised knees, Hermione held the inkpot where he could dip into it as he wrote 'Dear Professor McGonagall' at the top of the page.

"How should we start it?" Hermione asked quietly now, throwing a glance towards Umbridge's side of the room. Harry followed her vision and was irritated to find the woman far more lucid than Madame Pomfrey seemed to have realized in her earlier check. The 'High Inquisitor' was definitely listening in about Professor McGonagall's condition. Harry hoped, viciously perhaps, that the woman was sent to Azkaban for what she'd done. It was no less than she deserved for her treatment of the students and her attack on two professors, both of whom Harry was proud to know.

"Well," Harry settled to whispering to Hermione, to which she leaned in to hear him better, "we can't mention the... group."

Immediately, Hermione caught on to what he was saying and nodded her agreement. They could not mention the Order in this letter, lest someone realize their Head of House was in it. Enough people had been outed for being apart of the group, they didn't need another one recognized. Not that it wouldn't be obvious, considering McGonagall's clear alliance with Dumbledore, but caution was still an excellent plan.

"Still," Hermione whispered back, "we should at least mention what happened to all of us. I mean, I know Madame Pomfrey's going to tell her about our condition, but it wouldn't hurt to hear it from us. Plus, I'm not sure that McGonagall knows we saw her being attacked. She might like to know that, too."

"That's true," Harry agreed and then furrowed his brows in thought. Hermione likewise attempted to discern the best way of starting the letter.

Thirty minutes later, the two of them had created quite a nicely written letter that was kind – but not saccharine – in its tone and informative without being too detailed for public consumption. They had decided that last names were unnecessary. The names 'Harry' and 'Hermione' side-by-side were rather hard to misunderstand. Besides, after reading their essays for the past few years, Harry imagined the professor could easily recognize their individual script without any prompting.

Dear Professor McGonagall,

Hopefully this letter finds your health much improved. What happened to you on Wednesday night was appalling. We fifth-years were taking our practical in Astronomy at the time and saw the entire thing as it happened. Everyone was horrified and Professor Tofty was completely outraged. Everyone was so worried about you in the common room after we got back from exams. Lavender and Parvati were in tears. We've heard nothing of your welfare since, so we decided to take the matter into our own hands.

I hope you're doing a lot better, professor. You didn't deserve to be treated like that, especially after defending Hagrid. He was bloody furious when you were hit. I've rarely ever seen him that mad. He knocked some of them out for what they did.

You have heard about the six of us students who went to the Ministry, I'm sure. We are all okay now, thanks to Professor Dumbledore and his friends, and also to Madame Pomfrey's efforts.

I think we've said just about everything, but I just want to repeat that we hope you're getting better and will be back to Hogwarts soon.

Sincerely,

Harry & Hermione

"Perfect," Hermione complimented their joint letter with a sharp nod of approval and put it into an envelope which she then handed to Harry, who then took it over to Madame Pomfrey's office door, and who then would give it to Professor McGonagall at St. Mungo's.

When he noticed Hermione biting her nails upon his return, as if already awaiting a response, Harry just shook his head. Apparently, it was going to be a very long and tedious night.

A/N: Ah, Madam Umbridge is a freak and should be treated as such. (*smiles cheerily*)

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