We - well, Daphne and myself - confronted Dumbledore today. I had my whole 'How could you?!' speech prepared, but when the headmaster explained about the warding and Harry's aunt I was shattered. How could anyone have expected Harry to just tough it out in such a home?

Harry's grown a bit more. He's about six, I would guess, but I can't be sure; he's unnaturally quiet, he's become shy and reclusive again, and he keeps to himself. He doesn't play or chat so much now, and I don't know why. Had someone said something to him? Maybe Professor Snape, or Malfoy-

'Miss Granger?'

I don't turn an inch, and instead I stay seething - the Headmaster must have sent Professor McGonagall on a placation mission. 'Yes?' I say, trying my best not to sound more rude then is allowed by this instance - at least, I hope I'm being given some leeway.

'The Headmaster told me about the conversation he had with you and Miss Greengrass earlier. I... I wanted to ask if you were alright.'

Excuse me? I frustratedly pull at the sleeves of my pyjamas.

'I'm not alright, frankly. I'm quite upset.'

What else should I say? She comes here, like some lackey to make sure that I comply to Dumbledore's will even if Harry gets hurt by it. McGonagall rubs her hands together, and sits down beside me. I curl up even more on the sofa. I don't know what to say, but I didn't want to lie to dissolve the situation.

'I - well, everyone has noticed that wee Mr Potter's personality is... shall I say regressing?'

'Regressing...' I repeat, rolling the word on her tongue, 'Maybe he's just going back to normal. If you can call his behaviour normal. It's what he knows. I thought someone had said something unpleasant to him, and he's reacting in his own, um, appropriateness.'

'Certainly, though he's being taught to be reliant, confident, and free-willed, by you. If someone had sparked this defensiveness, I'm sure he would have come to you.'

I can't meet the professor's eyes. 'I don't think I've helped him to be anything he wasn't already, when he was with them. I don't know if I can do anymore for him. I can't change what's happened. Our good old Headmaster Dumbledore certainly won't.'

I hate thinking about what they did to Harry. What Dumbledore had allowed. It makes me sick.

'You can continue to change Mr Potter. We both aren't stupid, of course you can! Miss Granger, anything you put your mind to gets done, and if it's helping Harry recover from an abusive childhood, then that's what you'll do. I believe in you. I insisted that those horrible muggles were the worst sort, but Albus, bless him, didn't think he had any other option. Despite... our mistakes, we should be able to nurture him now. Sometimes, I'm thankful for Longbottom's blundering during Potions class. We can help Harry, and we will. What do you say?'

I look up from the flickering flames of the fireplace. That was one hell of a speech. McGonagall did do speeches justice. I was about to reply when there's a stumble by the dorm stairs. We both turn, and we both see Harry - looking extremely wary and unsure about something. As he dusts himself off - he straightens out his stripy t-shirt, which for once isn't a bazillion sizes too big - from his little tumble, he picks up what he dropped and flattens it. It's a sheet of parchment - I had asked Ron if he could keep Harry occupied, and that must have been all he could come up with. Drawing. Trust him to leave Harry to himself.

'Hello, sweetheart.'

Harry averts his eyes for a second, as if he doesn't believe I'm talking to him. When he looks back at me, his intense stare is almost discombobulating. He walks up to me hesitantly, and stands in front of me, still not saying a word. I put my feet down and I lean forward, hoping my cheeks don't look too flushed. His hair is messy, even though it's cut a little shorter. His nose is a bit red - he must be cold, or embarrassed - oh, maybe I'm staring too much. He looks at McGonagall and says in a quietly polite, coherent voice, 'Good evening Professor.'

A part of me thinks that he sounds like he thinks he's going to get a beating if he doesn't speak politely. Not that he's actually said anything to me yet.

Professor McGonagall is very cool about it, and shows no signs of having interpreted Harry like I might have. She says, enthused, 'And a good evening to you too. I hope you had a splendid afternoon with Mr Weasley and the bigger boys.'

Harry nods, but we both see he's tenser at the mention of his dorm mates.

I put my hand on his shoulder, and he leans into my touch. 'What, weren't they nice to you?'

Immediately, Harry shakes in the negative and sighs to himself. 'Scary.'

McGonagall nods in agreement, and says, 'Older boys can be scary.'

Harry only nods, and looks sadly at his shoes. He still hasn't done anything with the picture in his hands. His small, small hands...

He looks at the Professor, and then at me. 'I'll be ready for bed.' He tells us, before hastily shoving the parchment into my hands and running away to what had become our chambers. We women look at each other, and then down at the parchment in my hands.

It's blank. I'm staring at a blank page. What the hell- oh. McGonagall turns it over. Drawn quite nicely in what I can only assume are the muggle crayons I'd bought Ron once for Christmas, is a little red house, which a grey slate roof. There were trees and birds and stuff, and a shaggy-looking black dog too, but what caught my eye were the people, above whom was the label 'Family'.

Mummy and Dad were first - high in the sky living in a place Harry's labelled 'hevan'. The Professor's hands tightened a little but neither of us broke our silence. Next to them was another stick figure, with the word 'me' next to it. Harry - his drawing of himself wasn't extremely bad, but it wasn't flattering either; he was the smallest one, and the scar on his forehead had been scratched into the parchment in an angry red. The eyes weren't green, but were taken up by blank, white space behind his wonkily sketched spectacles. He was holding hands with a chain of figures, all holding hands in a neat little line - 'Mione', 'Ron', 'Loona', 'Dafnee', 'Susie'...

McGonagall saw the tears in my eyes and said, 'He's a special little boy.'

I nod without saying anything, knowing that as soon as I open my mouth I'll start crying. I always cry for Harry. I think we're the only Gryffindors with a reputation for crying openly. Harry used to cry all the time, but he wasn't good at hiding it. I'd always thought it was the stress of Voldemort... why didn't he ever correct me?

McGonagall pats my shoulder, magics a tissue from nowhere, forces it into my hands, and says softly, 'Go tuck him in. Goodnight Miss Granger.'

I get up, picture in hand, and reply, 'Right. Goodnight, Professor.' As McGonagall leaves, I move to our room. It's empty. The flowery duvet of the queen-sized bed has been pulled off at one corner and Harry's glasses had been placed on the bedside table. But Harry wasn't in bed. I wonder if he's even ready, I know I am...

I see Harry staring into the mirror - he's not wearing his pyjama shirt, and I can see plainly the purple line jag its way across his back, like someone teased at severing him in half. The skin shines in the sparse light of the room. Harry still has that scar, but it's a little faded now. Little Harry's got his top in one hand, letting it drag on the floor like he does his blanket when he thinks no one is looking. He still thinks he will get hit, so doesn't forget to hold this things reverently when people are around. His other hand reaches out into the mirror, and I watch as his fingers reach the glass, and I'm praying with him, hoping that he can take what he wants-

It's with a start that both of us come back to reality as his fingers drum against the glass. I'm startled to have lost my concentration, but Harry is distraught. I can see his face in the mirror - a sadness burns wildly in his eyes, and he grits his teeth in an effort not to sound his despair. We've not worked on the crying thing, but I figure the Dursleys would have made sure he knew how to keep quiet. I don't know what he's looking for-

No, yes, I do. What other significant mirror has Harry looked into? Maybe he subconsciously remembers seeing his parents. Ron had told me all about the mirror Harry had kept staring into our first Christmas at Hogwarts. I wish I could have been there for him, then.

'Harry?' I call from where I stand.

He turns, and looks at me, and his face contorts more as he struggles not to be upset. I put my arms out and get down to my knees. Immediately after I do so he's at me, having shot forward and landed in what I hope is the warmth of my embrace. I cuddle him and rock him a little, and rub his back gently. 'Harry, everything is going to be alright, ok?'

He looks up at me, and stammers wobbly, 'Pwomise?'

'Yes.'

Why did I say that? I can't promise him anything. Not when, in a few months, Harry will have to go back there to replenish some blood magic or something equally parasitic- urgh.

I carry him, and place him down on the bed and he rolls under the covers. I slip his top on him, get in to bed, and pull him back towards me so that his head fits nicely into the crook of my neck. My hand snakes around his legs - I know that if he has a nightmare, he'll kick. He's still upset, because he's silent. Usually we talk until he falls asleep. I keep his mind occupied with stories. Alas, as Dumbledore would intone, tonight is not the night.

Dumbledore. What a sod.

Harry whimpers tiredly, and turns around so that he's facing me. 'Hermione?'

I hold him tighter, and ask, 'Yes, Harry?'

'Did... did you like my dwawing?'

'I loved it. Thank you for giving it to me.' I say, rolling my shoulders - I didn't realise how stiff I'd get sitting like a human ball on that sofa. I hope he's not looking up my nose.

With a yawn, Harry tells me, 'I'll have to draw Daphne and Sus' some too, don't want them to get jealous any.'

'Don't bother,' I shush, rubbing his head and making him giggle tiredly, 'I don't think they'll mind.'

They aren't getting any cutesy drawings from Harry. Not if I can help it. He's all mine, and no one is going to hurt him anymore.