Disclaimer - Harry Potter and his world belong to J.K. Rowling. The lyrics at the start belong to Mumford and Sons. This story belongs to me.
A/N - Hello one and all! Welcome to my newest Harry Potter 'what if...?' one shot. I warn you - it's a long one, and this time, it's centred on the often unexplored mentor relationship between Harry and McGonagall. As with my other Harry Potter one-shots, a lot of these scenes have been taken from my other stories, but again I have expanded them into something that is completely different, and hopefully still enjoyable for you to read. I hope you like it!
The Lioness' Pride
Weep for yourself, my man,
You'll never be what is in your heart.
Weep, little lion man,
You're not as brave as you were at the start.
Rate yourself and rake yourself,
Take all the courage you have left.
And waste it on fixing all the problems
That you made in your own head.
Little Lion Man, by Mumford and Sons
Summer, 1996.
McGonagall sighed, her breath immediately disappearing into the cool, night-time air.
Harry Potter had now been at the Dursleys for almost a week now, and quite frankly, Minerva McGonagall thought, as she stared at the rows of identical houses, she couldn't wait to get him away from there. She had always had reservations about their character, especially after watching them for so many years ago now, but they had been reinforced upon seeing Harry's condition when he had first entered Hogwarts as a quiet, polite, thin and yet engaging child.
He had suffered greatly in the absence of his parents.
She doubted that much had changed at Number four in all the years that Harry had lived there. Knowing that Harry had turned out so differently from the family she had watched almost fifteen years ago now, she could only assume that they were not as close as Albus had once hoped they would be.
She doubted that they had ever really been there for him; it would certainly explain his reluctance to ever ask for help.
And how Harry needed someone to take care of him, she realised. How he needed someone to help him, to get him through such a tough period in his life. She knew he was strong, had known him to face dangers that grown men would tremble under, and face them like a true hero. But the truth was that every hero had their breaking point, and she feared, along with Albus and a large chunk of the Order, that Harry had finally reached his.
This past year had been his hardest yet.
Each member who undertook guard duty at Privet Drive had reported his listless appearance, the bags under his eyes, his desperate expression, facts only obtained from observations made through the window as Harry had yet to leave the confines of the house he had been raised in. It was clear, even to the densest member of the Order, that he was not coping well after what had happened at the end of his fifth year.
The fact that he had steadfastly refused to leave a place he so obviously hated was a concern for all of them, not least because they had had no idea how he was coping.
We're all helpless, she thought sadly, as she made her way around the wards surrounding the property, checking their strength and preparing to begin her rounds of the area. The night-time air was chilly but McGonagall pushed past any discomfort with ease as she continued to guard the boy's house. It was a duty that all of them had gladly taken on in light of Voldemort's more widespread reappearance, redoubling their efforts from the previous year.
Potter would not be left to fend for himself again. Not this time.
The truth was though, no one knew what was going on in Harry's head, and unless he chose to open up, they never would. They could protect him physically, and make sure he was safe from attack, but mentally, they had no idea how to help him. He had always held his secrets close to his chest, and seemed to guard his emotions fiercely, but she could only hope that Harry's friends at least would be able to get past the defences he had put up and help him to deal with everything.
Because Merlin knows we can't seem to.
If that boy could just realise how many people cared about him, truly cared, then he would never be able to feel alone again.
A lone tear slipped down one cheek but Minerva swiped at it quickly, effectively erasing any sign of its existence. There was no use getting emotional, she told herself. She had a job to do, and if Harry wouldn't let any of them help him through his grief, the least they could do was keep him safe.
It was close to 7 o'clock the next morning when she saw him.
McGonagall had come on guard duty late last night, and Mundungus Fletcher was due to take over for her any minute now, not that she was particularly pleased about that fact. The last time she had seem him guard Potter, he had been fast asleep under a nearby tree. She had berated him for a good ten minutes before letting him leave, but she'd promised herself that she would have a word with Albus about him. If Death Eaters had attacked that night, then Privet Drive would have been found unguarded.
Luckily, when she had set about checking the area, she hadn't seen anything wrong. The wards had been intact so it appeared that they had been lucky that time.
Today though, she would stand for no such nonsense. She would make sure he knew the consequences should he not take this as seriously as he should…
Her thoughts about possible threats were interrupted, however, when the front door of Potter's house opened with a loud slam. She quickly made sure that her Disolusionment charm was still in place, before moving closer to see what all the commotion was.
Unsurprisingly, it was Potter.
"Just get out, boy!" came a shrill yell, and McGonagall immediately identified the voice as belonging to Potter's Aunt. "I will not have you moping around the house anymore!"
"Fine," muttered Potter as he finally stepped out into the front garden, blinking against the bright morning light. McGonagall gasped at his condition; his hair was matted and greasy, his skin was pale as if the life had been sucked out of it, and his eyes were listless, as if it pained him to even open them to the world.
Merlin, he looked like a ghost…
"And don't come back until you've stopped sulking!"
Potter didn't reply to the last order for his Aunt, and when the door slammed in his face, he barely even flinched. In fact, Potter just sighed and turned to walk away from the house that should've been a refuge for him, but clearly wasn't.
Oh, orders be damned. There was no way she could stay invisible now.
McGonagall quickly waved her wand to make herself visible once more, before marching through the garden to try and intercept him at the gate. He immediately noticed her presence and turned to face her, but instead of recognition, or even relief at seeing her in front of him, Potter raised his wand angrily.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
She looked at him as though he had lost his sanity, unsure what to make of the situation, but the expression in his eyes commanded her to give him an answer.
"Professor McGonagall, Potter, your Head of House."
"Prove it," he said, his stern gaze unfaltering. "What did you do when me, Ron and Hermione told you about the Philosopher's Stone in our first year?"
"I did nothing Potter," she said sadly, the guilt still haunting her to this day. "I dropped my books in shock, but I did nothing. There has not been a day that has gone by where I have not regretted that moment and the way I acted."
Harry just nodded in acknowledgement, but whether it was in acknowledgement of her guilt or his acceptance of her identity, she didn't know. Either way, she was thankful when he eventually lowered his wand, his expressive eyes screaming nothing but pain and shame.
"Sorry, Professor," he said quietly, his gaze lowering to the ground, "I'm just a bit...jumpy at the moment."
All his anger seemed to be gone now, replaced with nothing more than complete desolation. She felt her heart clench at the sight, but she steeled herself for what she had to do now.
"I doubt anyone could blame you for that, Potter," Minerva replied sympathetically.
Harry just shrugged and looked at his watch, obviously not wanting to talk about it.
"I'm going for a walk," he announced, and set off, moving out of the garden at a very brisk pace.
"Potter," she called when he reached the road, and was relieved to see him stop and turn around.
"Yes, Professor?"
"Do you mind if I join you?" she continued hesitantly.
He just shrugged again, and continued at his previous brisk pace onto the streets of Little Whinging that he knew so well, but McGonagall took that as permission to follow him.
As she tried to catch up with him, McGonagall took a moment to examine the changes that had occurred in one of her favourite students. He seemed taller now, and although he was still far too skinny, his build was much less scrawny than it had been in recent years. Thanks to Quidditch, no doubt, she thought proudly.
One of the most astounding differences that she saw in Harry, though, was the way he now carried himself. As long as she had known him, she had seen a fairly shy, polite boy but one absolutely bursting with curiosity. It was no accident that he had discovered the secret of the Philosopher's Stone, nor the legend of the Chamber of Secrets. He had always held his head up high, not in a show of arrogance like his father, but rather to satisfy his need to see everything. His green eyes always seemed to be alive, always taking note.
Now, however, his gaze was firmly focused on the ground on which he walked, his shoulders hunched over as if he was trying to fold in on himself. She doubted that he was taking in anything about his surroundings whatsoever, and he seemed so deep in his thoughts that he probably wouldn't have even noticed if Professor Snape suddenly appeared across the street dressed in Augusta's clothing again.
This was perhaps what worried her most about Harry as she finally reached him, falling into the pace he had set with ease despite her recent hospital stay. He seemed as if nothing interested him anymore. Where once a child had stood, curiosity overflowing from his very spirit, now stood a teenager who looked to have the weight of the world on his shoulders, his mind focused inwards on whatever was haunting him, rather than outwards onto the rest of the world.
"Are you quite alright, Potter?" McGonagall internally winced at the question, but she really had no idea what else to say.
"I'm fine, Professor", Harry replied despondently, his gaze not lifting off the floor as he continued to march across the labyrinth of streets that he knew so well. "How are you? Have you recovered well from the stunning spells?"
His concern seemed genuine and despite the seriousness of the situation, she couldn't help but be proud of the young man in front of her.
"I'm fine, Potter," she replied simply. "No lasting damage."
They fell into silence once again as they continued to walk at the brisk pace that Harry was setting. Eventually, though, McGonagall had to break it.
"Potter," she began hesitantly, but her voice betrayed the worry that she was feeling. "I know that you're struggling with recent events…"
"I'm fine," Potter interrupted quietly.
She tried to meet his gaze as they walked, always finding it easier to catch out a liar if the person in question looked at her directly, but his gaze didn't move from the ground. When Harry didn't expand on his reply, she knew she had to speak.
"You are not fine, Potter," McGonagall told him sadly, and though he didn't stop or even turn to look at her, his steps faltered slightly. "In fact, I believe you are about as far away from fine as it is possible to be."
She hoped beyond all hope that she was mistaken. She hoped, somewhat irrationally, that her student was just having a bad day, that he really was fine underneath all the signs that were saying the opposite. Deep down, though, she knew this wasn't the case.
Her worst fear was confirmed when Harry, after a protracted pause, finally replied.
"I just…I can't do it anymore."
At this revelation, he seemed to pick up the pace, perhaps in an attempt to lose her, but Minerva had no intention of letting this one go that easily.
"Potter," she said, once she had caught up to him again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a lone park bench, and she pointed over to it, watching as he followed her gaze. "Let's rest for a moment. I am an old woman, you know, and I believe this is a conversation that is best had sat down."
Potter looked for all the world like it was last thing he wanted to do, but he dutifully followed her to the bench anyway, perhaps correctly guessing that it had been closer to an order than a suggestion.
Once they were seated, McGonagall turned to her student, determined that he would hear what she had to say. She knew that it would be difficult, but she also knew that Potter needed to hear her next words now more than ever, and it was that, more than anything else, that forced her to speak.
"I lost my husband," she began quietly, the pain still raw after all these years. Potter's eyes widened, though he didn't interrupt and for that she was grateful. This would be hard enough to say without stopping and starting. "He…he was bitten by a Tentacula only three years into our marriage, and he never recovered from it. It has been over ten years since his death, and yet the grief I feel has still not calmed. I doubt it ever will."
"I'm sorry, Professor," Harry said quietly, his attention fixed on his own hands as he listened to her words.
"I tell you this, Potter," McGonagall continued, waving off his sympathy, "Not so that you think I understand how you are feeling. No one, I suspect, could ever know how you feel now that you have lost Sirius."
She saw tears collect at the corners of his eyes, but by sheer will alone, he did not let them fall.
"Potter," McGonagall continued, her pride growing. "I tell you this, because you need to know that life will go on. It will not always feel like it does now. I'm sure you feel as if there is no point to anything anymore, but Potter...there is. I promise you that there is." She took a deep breath. "I thought I would never recover from my husband's death. I thought that my life had ended."
"How did you keep going?" Potter choked out finally.
"I had to," McGonagall replied, holding back her own tears. She forced herself to go on. "It was not easy, and there are times now that I still doubt the point in it all. But no matter what happens, Potter, I always knew that I had to keep going. Because people were counting on me. My friends, my family, my students. People are still counting on me..."
"I'm not sure I can do it, Professor," Potter admitted, his voice full of desperation. "I don't think I can keep going."
"Yes you can, Potter," she replied, her voice strong. "Because you are not alone. You may feel as if you are, but I assure you Potter, so long as breath still resides in my body, you will never be alone to face your demons. Over the years I have failed you, but no longer."
"Professor…"
"The grief you feel," she interrupted gently, "Will never go away. But you will learn to cope with it, and you will do well to remember that though it may feel like it, you have not lost everything. You have your life, and Sirius, god rest his soul, would hate to see you waste it wallowing on his death."
"I..."
"He would have hated to see you so upset, Harry," McGonagall said quietly. "Those boys…they were full of life, of happiness, of fun. Sirius…he would have wanted you to make something of your life. He wanted the best for you, Harry. Don't ever forget that."
"I won't," Harry mumbled, his voice shaky. "It's just…it's hard."
"Of course it is," she replied, her eyes meeting his. "But you are not alone. You will do well to remember that as well."
"I'll try, Professor," Potter said quietly.
"Good," she replied, trying to inject a little cheer into her voice. "Now, shall we continue on our way? I hear the streets of Little Whinging are simply beautiful this time of year."
The corner of his lips twitched, and though he did not smile, McGonagall took it as a sign that at least some of her words had sunk in. Potter may not be ready to move past his grief, but maybe, just maybe, he would not let it consume him.
She could only hope, and pray, and be there for him every step of the way. At the very least, she would not fail him, she decided as they stood up and continued on their way in comfortable silence. Not anymore.
Her student would be okay. She would make sure of it.
Summer, 1998.
Harry paced outside the Headmas – no, Headmistress' office, he reminded himself – the aftermath of the battle still raging through his mind. It had only been a day, and yet already it felt as if the mountain was too high, the task too great for any of them to manage.
How could they keep going? How could they move on when so many people were gone for good…?
"Potter?" came a voice behind him, the Scottish accent immediately telling him who had caught him in his moment of weakness. Harry raised his head and shook himself slightly, squaring his shoulders as he attempted to show a bravery and confidence that he did not feel.
"Professor," Harry nodded, averting his eyes as he felt McGonagall's stern gaze on him. She had always seemed to know when he was lying, or at least hiding something from her, and although he greatly admired that about one of his favourite teachers, at the moment, he did not want her to see the truth; that he was hurting as much as any of them were.
He wanted to be strong.
"Potter, what's wrong?" she asked, her voice taking on an unusual tone of concern as she studied him.
"Nothing Professor," Harry replied quickly, trying to hide his grimace as he straightened his shoulders and turned his attention away from her office door to face her. Then before she could refute what was clearly an obvious lie, Harry quickly continued.
"Actually Professor," he began, "I need to get back to the Great Hall, so…"
Harry turned dejectedly, his heart hammering in his chest as he experienced the feeling of failure wash over him once again. He turned slowly away from his ex-Professor, steeling himself to make the journey back to the Great Hall to see if there was anything else he could do. Why had he come here anyway…?
"Actually, Mr Potter," began McGonagall, stopping him in his tracks, "Have you got a moment? I require a word."
"I…okay," he replied. He had always struggled to say no to his Head of House, especially since their talk in the aftermath of his fifth year. She had saved him then, and he had never truly felt as if he could ever repay her for that.
"Come on in then, Mr Potter," McGonagall said gently, steering him towards the staircase and up towards her office.
Once they were seated, McGonagall turned to face him, and he met her gaze, all the while hoping that his eyes did not give him away. He didn't want to be here. He couldn't be here...
"Have you thought about what you would like to do, once the new term begins?"
The question surprised Harry, and was enough to shake him out of his depressing thoughts. From the moment he had entered the old office, he had been confronted by memories he would rather forget; losing Sirius, learning about Horcruxes, announcing that Voldemort had been defeated and then enduring the applause and praise that he did not believe he had earned.
Now, as he forced himself to look in the tired, and yet sympathetic eyes of his old Head of House, Harry realised that he was not the only one suffering. He could endure a little pain, a little grief, because now he was needed, and he forced himself to remember what he had been telling himself from the moment Voldemort had fallen for the last time; now he had to be strong.
He couldn't sink into depression. Just like McGonagall had taught him all those years ago, he had to make the sacrifices worth it.
"Actually, I'm not sure," Harry replied honestly, looking up to meet the eyes of McGonagall. "Everything's changed now."
"You're not coming back to Hogwarts," said McGonagall quietly, as if it was a statement rather than a question.
"No, I don't think so," replied Harry, shaking his head. He didn't know exactly what his future held, but he was sure that it did not involve completing his education. Maybe he would speak to Kingsley about becoming an Auror...
"I thought not," McGonagall said sadly.
He followed her gaze as she looked up to the portrait of Professor Dumbledore sat high on the wall, her eyes full of pain, and grief, and confusion. And Harry knew in that moment, that despite her continual, unfazed stoicism in the face of destruction, in truth, she was just as lost as the rest of them.
"I'm not sure if anyone has informed you," McGonagall began uncertainly, pulling Harry from his thoughts. "But there will be a short memorial service this afternoon, where we will gather in the Great Hall to remember all of those lost in the fight against Voldemort."
"Oh," said Harry, his voice tightening slightly. He knew he had been avoiding his guilt but the fact that he would be confronted with it in such a public setting frankly frightened him. He would lose control, he knew it.
"They look up to you now, Mr Potter," the Headmistress continued, apparently not surprised or bothered in the least by Harry inadequate reply. "I can see it. They turn to you now, just as they turned to Albus when he was still among us. We need you, now more than ever."
He took a deep breath and looked over to Dumbledore's portrait, his strength growing by the second in the face of her support. Her words, spoken at a time when his grief had nearly consumed him, came back to him now, and he clung to them.
"I'd like to say a few words," Harry said, his voice stronger as determination outweighed his grief and fear. It would be difficult, but if they were truly going to overcome this battle, this war, then they had to know what led them to it in the first place. And with Dumbledore gone, no one else knew the whole story.
No one but him.
McGonagall nodded her acceptance, the pride clear in her glistening eyes.
"It is a hard burden to bear," she said. "I am proud of you, more so now because I know you can bear it. They would be proud of you too."
She did not have to say who she was talking about. It was clear that she was referring to everyone who had ever loved him, and everyone who had since left him, and he looked up at the words, offering his Professor a grateful and sad smile. She understood, perhaps better than anyone, the position he was in.
They were both trying to fill the space that someone had left behind.
"You can bear it too, Professor," he said suddenly, his tone full of understanding as he looked towards one of his favourite professors with only the utmost respect for her.
McGonagall looked surprised but grateful as she held his gaze, her eyes filling with unshed tears.
"He would be proud of you too," Harry continued, nodding towards the sleeping Dumbledore. He smiled at her. "I know we all are."
On a whim, he reached across the desk and grasped her hand, offering his support in the only way he knew how at the moment. The gentle contact seemed to undo her, and the tears began to fall unwillingly down her aged face.
He patted her hand and stood, nodding to her once again. He knew, instinctively, that she would want some time alone to grieve. It was the least he could give her after everything she had given them.
He walked slowly through the door without turning back, but before he closed it behind himself, a grief-stricken voice interrupted him.
"Thank you, Mr Potter."
"You're welcome, Professor," he replied, closing the door behind him quietly.
He left then, wandering down the corridors idly, lost in thought.
His future, his feelings would have to wait. Duty was upon him once again, and this time, the importance in his actions was clear. If they were to create a safe world worthy of the sacrifices that had been given to make it possible, then it was up to him to start them off on the right path.
He had agonised for hours about how he would address the people who were turning up to the memorial service. He'd avoided Ron and Hermione, the Weasleys, and especially Ginny, choosing instead to occupy an abandoned but undamaged classroom in the hope that he could gather his thoughts enough to make a coherent speech.
Now, as he sat in his seat in the Great Hall, avoiding the concerned looks that his friends kept shooting him, he still didn't know exactly what to say.
He glanced over to where his Head of House was seated, her face now clear of any sign that she had broken down hours earlier. He took strength from the sight, his own pride growing as he saw her face her burden with poise and grace. She was carrying on, despite everything, and he knew he owed it to her to do the same...
He didn't have much time to consider that thought, however, as the last mourners shuffled into the hall, and the service began.
Kingsley's words washed over him, but his brain worked frantically, trying to come up with some way to do what he knew had to be done. Dumbledore had always made this sort of thing look easy, and Harry had never missed the man more. He would have known exactly what to say, and exactly the manner in which to say it. Instead, Harry felt as if he was a drowning man at sea, desperately searching for a float in the vast ocean.
There was no easy answer, no rescue from his fate, and it was not long before Ron was nudging him to get him attention, and he was walking shakily up to the front, taking his place behind the podium. He cleared his throat nervously, well aware that he was only seventeen and was about to attempt to make his first foray into leadership. He had never felt so unprepared for anything in his life.
As Harry stared out across the sea of faces, each of them giving him their full attention, he felt his throat close up in panic. But then he met the steady eyes of his Head of House, and suddenly he knew how he had to start. The grief was clear on each face he encountered, but so was confusion and shock. It was as if most people could not believe what had happened, did not understand why they had lost their loved one, when only days ago they had been happy and alive.
He knew that this speech would likely go down in history, forever immortalised in the pages of the history books of the future, never to be forgotten. The pressure caused his throat to dry up, but he gathered up all his courage to do what he knew only he could do. Certain things needed to be said, and the impact wouldn't be the same if it came from anyone else. He had a chance to set a much needed precedent for the new society they were trying to build; he had to make each and every word count.
Clearing his voice, he began to speak, his head held high as he tried to inject confidence into his words.
"I've never been much good at speeches," Harry began as he surveyed the crowd of people in front of him. "I've always been much more comfortable with taking action. Of course, that didn't always work out for the best." At this, Harry gave a wry smile to Hermione, who nodded up at him in return.
"You see, this war has always been about so much more than our actions, or the actions of those we've been fighting against."
As he glanced up, he saw a few surprised faces in the crowd, but he carried on undeterred.
"I don't mean to sound ungrateful to those who gave their lives for this cause. We can never truly repay those who helped us win this war. But this war was about more than that. It has always been about more than that."
"Do any of you know why Voldemort did what he did? Why he killed so many people? Why he even started this war to begin with?" Harry asked the crowd, his voice rising as his emotions took control. "As much as he may have seemed it, Voldemort was no monster; he was a man. An evil man, but still a human being."
He lifted his head and pushed his shoulders back, trying to present a confidence he did not feel.
"He was born a human and he died a human. Voldemort's real name was Tom Riddle."
The crowd seemed to gasp as one as the shock of this statement sunk in, but Harry did not give them long to dwell on that revelation.
"He was born to a witch mother and a muggle father. Lord Voldemort was a half-blood," Harry continued, fully aware that the silent crowd was riveted to every word he spoke.
"When his father abandoned him, and his mother died, he was left to grow up in a muggle orphanage. Like all of you, he received a Hogwarts letter, and at eleven years old, he walked through this very hall. Some of you may have known him. Some of you may have even liked him. He was handsome and he was helpful; a model student. In his final year he even became Head Boy. No one knew what he would later become. No one could have known."
"Voldemort was once just a boy, not a monster. He was Tom Riddle, the orphaned half-blood. But don't you see?" Harry asked rhetorically. "All of you sitting here were scared of Voldemort. I was scared of Voldemort. But not one of you would have been scared of Tom Riddle. He changed himself, distorted himself, made himself less than human. He changed his name so that one day people would fear to speak it."
Harry paused for a moment, giving the crowd some time to let his words sink in before he continued, "And we did. For good reason as well; he murdered so many innocent people, and he started the cycle of hatred that almost lead to the destruction of our world."
He allowed his eyes to express his emotion, meeting the shocked gaze of many of those in the crowd.
"But did none of you wonder why he did it? You feared what he had become, but did any of you stop and wonder how it was that a monster like him had been created in the first place?" He looked over at some of his friends in the crowd and saw the confused expressions on their faces. It seemed, just by glancing around, that no one had truly questioned what had driven Voldemort to kill in the first place.
"It wasn't hatred of muggles." Harry stated calmly, and there were a few gasps upon hearing this revelation. Harry could hear some muttering in the crowd, but he carried on regardless. This was important; it needed to be said.
"Lord Voldemort didn't murder all those people because of some messed up pure-blood ideal. He hated his muggle father for abandoning him and he hated all muggles because of his neglected childhood, but mere hatred wasn't the reason that Riddle became Lord Voldemort. Hatred wasn't why he became a murderer." Here Harry paused again, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. He knew the importance that his next words carried and he needed to make them count.
"It was power," Harry continued. "Tom Riddle wanted to be the most powerful wizard in existence, nothing less. He wanted to be unbeatable, invincible, even immortal...and so he killed. He murdered all those who stood in the way of his quest for ultimate power. He collected followers, those blinded enough by their hatred of all that they didn't understand, and they murdered on his behalf. Riddle made them fear him as much as we ever did, and he did it all for power."
"And do you know what?" Harry questioned the crowd. "We gave that power to him. Albus Dumbledore once said that the fear of a name only increased the fear of the thing itself. Well, we feared the name he had given to himself, to the point when people were no longer brave enough to even speak it. We feared the monster that Riddle had become, even to the point where our Minister refused to accept Voldemort's return because he was blinded by the fear of what that could mean for his peaceful society."
Harry looked up at this point, and caught the eye of ex-Minister Fudge who was stood to the side of the main crowd. He looked devastated, his expression one of complete remorse. Harry was not about to relieve him of that. It was Fudge's burden to bear, for it had been his mistake that could have cost them everything.
"Our society's fear gave him that power. We cannot let that happen again!" Harry banged his fist on the podium in front of him to emphasise his words.
"A great man once said that we always have a choice between doing what's easy and doing what's right. We won this war because in the end we did the right thing. It would have been easy to try to run and hide, as some people chose to."
At this Harry noticed Horace Slughorn shift uncomfortably in the crowd, but Harry didn't acknowledge it. In the end, Slughorn had stayed to fight the people that he had run away from for so long, and Harry could do nothing but respect that.
"Or," Harry continued, "any one of you could have given into his regime, as some people did." His thoughts at this point turned to the Ministry, and all those who had turned a blind eye to the changing policies simply because they were too scared to resist them.
"But you didn't," he said forcefully. "Those of us who fought, those of us who resisted; we did the right thing. Fighting wasn't easy, and the cost was high, but it was the right thing to do. We nearly lost this war because some people chose to do the easy thing. It would have been the right thing for Fudge to have accepted Riddle's return as soon as he had been notified of it."
Harry glanced at the ex-Minister in the crowd, and saw tears running unchecked down his face. Harry quickly looked away.
As he continued, Harry allowed his eyes to roam the crowd. "We should have been prepared but instead Fudge was scared and he let his fear rule him. In his folly, he chose the easy option; he ignored the signs and for that our society has suffered and people have died. We weren't ready for the war when it came."
Tears fell from the observers, but still Harry continued, biting back his own tears.
"But even despite the mistakes of weaker people, we still managed to defeat Voldemort and his followers. And do you know why?" Harry asked the crowd.
"It was because of our courage," he answered forcibly. "We fought back! We challenged him. Courage doesn't mean that you have no fear at all. I would be surprised if anyone felt truly fearless when they faced Voldemort's army. It was terrifying. True courage is acting in spite of your fear. It's about doing what you believe is right, even if it scares you."
He took a deep breath.
"And so instead, we frightened Riddle that day."
Harry saw a few disbelieving expressions in the crowd but he did his best to ignore them, safe in the knowledge that he was right about this at least.
"All of us; we frightened Lord Voldemort because we challenged him. We united; from squibs to purebloods, from house-elves to giants, we resisted him. Together we were stronger than even his force. We took his power away from him! We had something he didn't, but it was more than that; we understood something that he never could. We had something worth fighting for!"
At this statement, Harry heard a few cheers on the crowd and he carried on with renewed passion.
"I saw it at the battle," Harry told them. "Good people died, yes, but they died for us. I know that anyone here would have willingly made the same sacrifice. And that's something that Riddle and his Death Eaters could never understand. Their loyalty was born out of fear and hatred; our loyalty was born out of love."
"If we are going to start again," Harry continued, trying to calm his emotions enough to speak, "if we are going to rebuild after this war, then we need to make sure that we don't make the same mistakes that we have done in the past. We must learn. We must remember. We've been given the gift of a second chance. We can't let our prejudices or our fears destroy it. If we are to start again, then we must remember why we all fought in the first place, and why we eventually won; it was our courage and love that saved us. If we can remember that as we try to move on with our lives, then no Tom Riddle will ever again be able to become Lord Voldemort. Remember the dead, but most of all remember the living, and remember why it is that we live."
He met McGonagall's gaze for the briefest of seconds, but it was enough; her tearful, prideful eyes told Harry that she understood. She had saved him years ago, and now he was using everything she had taught him to save their entire world.
"We fought for each other", Harry emphasised. "We would have died for each other! Now we must live for each other as well. We will never forget this war, but we need to live and love in the present or all hope for a future will be lost. The spirits of the dead live on in us; our memories of them will make sure that they are never truly gone from our lives. But we must make them proud! We have to make their sacrifice worth it! Voldemort never understood the power of love, and we must never forget it."
Harry took a deep, steadying breath. "Thank you."
And with that, Harry stepped down off the platform and returned to his seat, the applause accompanied him giving him hope that a better future was not too far away.
McGonagall watched with tears falling from her eyes as her student made his way back to his seat, the loud cheers of hundreds of people accompanying him.
McGonagall did not move, however.
Instead, she studied him closely, taking in the appearance of one of her favourite students. He had changed drastically in the time he had spent on the run. The signs were clear for her to see that his year had not been an easy one; tiredness lined his now stubbled face, and new scars met old ones to create the image of a warrior, one that looked wrong on a visage that she knew to be only seventeen.
He had changed so much since that conversation on that park all those years ago.
And yet he was still so young, and his eyes...they held such pain. McGonagall could tell that Harry was hiding his grief, his pain, but the strength that her student was exhibiting gave her hope that they had turned a corner today.
Their world would be okay, McGonagall decided, watching as their collective grief was released like a wave. Potter would make sure of it.
~ The End ~
A/N - So, what did you think? I realise that it's incredibly long, but I felt that splitting it up would have made the story suffer somehow. I really hope Harry and McGonagall seem realistic and in-character, and that everything I wrote was reflective of what we know from the books. I really wanted this story to act as a sort of missing scene, one that could have been taken straight from the books. I truly hope I achieved that.
I really would like to know what you thought of it, and whether or not you would like me to write something similar. Every time someone takes the time to review one of my stories, it makes my day, and I love each and every one of you for all your support.
For now though, until next time, thank you for reading!