Chapter 21

Harry had to run from the transfiguration classroom to make it to his next class without being late. It was two floors up, but he could tell from the noise inside that he had managed to get there before the professor. He was still fuming and still rushed with adrenaline. He stopped outside the door, taking a moment to steady himself and straighten his uniform. He had beat up Draco Malfoy. Maybe he shouldn't have, but if he ever saw that smug look on the bastard's face again, he would probably do the same thing once more. Even thinking about it now sent jabs of anger through him – he had been so stupid. He knew Malfoy. He had known him for years; he shouldn't have believed for one second that he could have changed. He took a deep breath before he pushed the door open and went in. He dropped into the empty seat next to Ron.

"Christ, Harry, what happened to your face?" asked Dean, turning around in his chair.

"I got in a fight with Malfoy."

"You did what?!"

"What happened?" asked Luna.

They had history of magic with the Ravenclaws. "The mudblood, lunatic, the penniless bloodtraitors, those are your friends, remember?"

"I went back to get my book and he came out of the classroom right when I got there and," Harry shrugged. "I don't know. Things got out of hand."

He turned to Hermione.

"You were right, he's a git. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Damn right he's a git, was there ever any doubt about that?" asked Ron.

There shouldn't have been any doubt. "The mudblood, the lunatic, the half-squib, those are your friend's, remember?". He knew what Malfoy was like – he was evil and sadistic, in fact those were probably his only emotions. That and self-pity, Malfoy was excellent at feeling sorry for himself, it was just ridiculous that Harry had felt sorry for him too. Because he had allowed some part of himself to want to see him, to like him. He would have liked to pretend that he hadn't. That he hadn't been worried when he was absent and relieved when he came back. But it wasn't possible to feel disappointed if there had been no expectations. And he did feel disappointed. He felt betrayed. And he felt like an idiot for ever believing in any of it.

"No, but that still doesn't seem quite right, does it?" said Cho. "It seems to me he's mostly left everyone alone this year. Especially since he came back after the holidays. Why would he suddenly get in your face?"

Harry shrugged.

"I don't know. Maybe he's just finally lost it."

"Yes, maybe…" said Cho and turned her attention to the front of the classroom, where professor Binns had just drifted through the wall.

"I can't believe you got in a fist fight with him," whispered Ron. "Why didn't you just use magic?"

"I don't know. I was angry, I didn't think of it."

"Did you win?"

Harry hesitated.

"I suppose you could say that."

They were getting looks from Ravenclaws as well as Hermione, but Binns just droned on and didn't notice their whispering at all.

"Don't worry, nobody will find out," said Ron. "And besides, it was about time someone beat him up. I'm just sad it wasn't me."

ø

As the day went on Draco grew more anxious about his meeting with the headmistress. He ended up leaving the Great Hall halfway through dinner, and even though he went by his dormitory and tried to get a bit of homework done, he was still by her office almost fifteen minutes too early. He paced back and forth in the hallway for a while, then stepped up to the gargoyle that guarded the entrance. She hadn't given him a password, but he assumed it would let him in when he had been invited.

"I have an appointment with the headmistress," he said.

The stone Gargoyle stepped aside and he walked past it unto a spiral staircase that carried him to the door of the headmistress' office. He knocked and it swung open.

Professor McGonagall sat behind her desk and looked up when Draco stepped inside.

"Please sit down," the headmistress told him, gesturing to a chair in front of her.

He sat.

"I will be with you in a second."

She skimmed the last few lines of the piece of parchment she was holding, then put it away in a drawer. Draco glanced around the office - it was lined with bookcases and well furnished, but not exactly lavish or elegant in the way the Slytherin common room was. He was sure there had to be quite a few powerful and valuable magical artefacts in there, but apart from the sorting hat lying on its shelf and Godric Gryffindor's sword in its glass case, most of them must have been put away in the many cupboards and cabinets. He wondered how much the current headmistress had changed it. It didn't seem like the sort of room the previous headmaster could have inhabited, but it made perfect sense that professor McGonagall's office would be practical rather than impressive.

"So, Mr Malfoy," said the headmistress and he turned his attention back to her. "I wanted to ask you how you are doing."

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Several of your teachers have shown concern about your performance in their classes."

She paused as if she was expecting some sort of reaction, but he didn't say anything.

"Your grades have dropped dramatically compared to previous years and you hardly ever participate in class anymore. I have noticed this during my own lessons as well. I know you are very skilled in transfiguration, but it seems you are not even trying. And your written assignments have, as you know, been far below your usual standard. There is also the issue of you skipping classes. As far as I can tell, this has been an especially big problem for my lessons, and I wonder why that might be?"

"I don't know, professor."

"We have had many students who have struggled with coming back to school after the way classes were taught last year-"

"Professor," he said, interrupting her. "You don't have to pretend that this is about my grades."

"I'm not pretending," she said, regarding him with a strange look in her eyes. "What do you think this is about?"

He shrugged.

"I assume you've realized you can't have death eaters going to your school. It makes perfect sense, so there is no need to pretend otherwise."

"If we had thought so we wouldn't have allowed you to come back in the first place. I assure you this has nothing to do with the role you played in the war – at least not directly."

"Fine. If you think its better that way, though it isn't very believable that this has nothing to do with what I did or who my father is. Nobody will believe I was expelled because of my grades, so it doesn't make a difference what reason you give me."

"You're not being expelled."

"Why else would I be here?" he asked, a tiny sliver of impatience slipping into his voice.

"Do you really think that is the only reason I might want to speak with you privately? That I would never call a student to my office simply because they were my student? You are here because all of your teachers are concerned about you. And not just about your academic performance, but about your wellbeing."

"Well, then thank you for your concern, professor, but I am fine," he said, his voice taking on the sharp tone of politeness that it only had when he was angry.

"I wanted to give you the opportunity to start seeing a therapist," she said, and then explained: "They are a kind of muggle mind-healers."

Immediately, images flashed through his mind of saws and leeches and everything horrible he had ever heard about muggle medicine. Some of the repulsion must have shown on his face, because professor McGonagall let out a small sigh.

"The treatment mainly consists of conversation," she said patiently. "It was recommended to me by both Ms Granger and several other students and parents with close ties to the muggle world. Because of this, Hogwarts has appointed three who are all parents of former Hogwarts students, so they already knew about our world, and they are specialized in working with minds that have been damaged by war. They work at St. Mungo's and the students who see them floo there for their appointments – we thought it would be more discreet than to have them stay at the castle with Madam Pomfrey."

"I don't care how discreet it is," he said. "I don't need to talk to any muggle healers. I am perfectly fine."

"You would be surprised how many of your housemates have accepted the offer."

"I don't have much confidence in the judgment of my housemates. I'm sure the offer was well intended, but I do not want any incompetent muggles attempting to "heal my mind"."

Professor McGonagall nodded.

"I expected as much, but I still want you to consider it. If it's a no for now, I must ask you to talk to me instead. Things cannot continue the way they have so far."

"There is nothing to tell, professor. Things have been fine for half a year, I don't see why there is suddenly a problem now."

"Before the holidays, you seemed to be improving. In fact I thought it seemed you were doing… rather well."

There was a slight hesitation in her voice. The words hitched, the pause caught in his ears. His eyes snapped back to her, but her expression didn't reveal anything. But did she know? Was this about Potter?

"But now you've come back – a week later than expected – and you don't look very well."

"I've been sick."

"That's what your mother told me, but I was wondering if something else might have happened while you were at home?"

"I don't know why you would think that, professor."

Professor McGonagall sighed. She folded her hands in front of her on the table and her expression of sternness relaxed, becoming almost mild. She looked tired too, he thought. And old.

"Mr Malfoy," she said quietly. "I have been a teacher for a very long time and I have taught hundreds of students over the years. I have talked to more students than you can imagine about worse things than you would like to think about. And I have gotten very good at noticing when something is wrong. Sometimes they are very angry and it is easy to tell but hard to help them. Sometimes they are just too old for their age and you can see it in their eyes how hard they are trying to keep something secret. Sometimes it's something I can help with, and sometimes it's something you can't do anything about as a teacher. These last few years there have been way too many children that I couldn't help, but that doesn't mean I don't try. And you might not consider yourself a child anymore, but you are still a student at Hogwarts, and as long as you are, it is my responsibility that you are safe and that you are well."

He was looking at his hands, folded in his lap. They twitched.

"Nothing happened," he said.

"You don't have to keep secrets from me. No one outside this office will ever know unless you want then to and if you do not want me to help then I will not try. But if something happened while you went home, or if there is some other reason that you are not well – because you're not, Mr Malfoy – then I think you should tell me what it is."

"I visited my father," he said, his voice flat.

For a moment the professor looked surprised. She hadn't expected that.

"In Azkaban?" she asked.

Draco didn't say anything. He unfolded his hands, stretched his fingers.

"But they don't allow people to visit?"

He shrugged.

"My name doesn't open as many doors as it used to, but we do have our connections. My mother wanted to see him. To say goodbye."

"Did you want to?"

"No," he said.

"I'm sorry you had to."

"Have you ever been there, professor?"

She hesitated.

"No," she said. "I have not."

He nodded. Of course she hadn't. The only people who went there were the aurors and the prisoners and none of them talked about it when they left. He didn't think the prisoners could. Anyone who had ever been locked up in there would have to make themselves forget if they wanted to live even a halfway normal life afterwards. You couldn't carry such a place around with you and still be a person. And as for the aurors – if it was Draco who had helped guard such a place he wouldn't want to tell anyone about it either. He doubted any of the witches and wizards in the Wizengamot had any idea where they sent the people they sentenced. He didn't think a single one of them had ever been near the tower.

"It's evil," he said, and the intensity in his voice surprised him.

He looked up and professor McGonagall looked taken aback.

"It shouldn't exist," he said. "Something like that… it's not supposed to exist."

"I'm not sure if I am allowed to tell you this, but I know that Kingsley Shacklebolt is trying to do something about Azkaban. He is trying to pass legislation to remove the dementors, and -"

His pulse was hammering. He had been feeling dazed and half sleep ever since he came back, but he didn't anymore. His thoughts were crystal clear. He interrupted her mid-sentence:

"That won't work. He won't be able to get it through the Wizengamot, you know that, professor."

"It might take a long time, but I'm sure eventually-"

"But that's not good enough! It can't exist, it shouldn't even exist one more day, and what you're talking about would take years, and by then someone who isn't Shacklebolt will be Prime Minister and it will never happen!"

"You shouldn't have had to go there," she said. "You shouldn't have had to see your father like that."

"It's not about my father – I don't care about him, he's gone, it's that place. It has to be destroyed."

He knew as soon as he said it that is was true. He took a deep breath before he continued.

"It's evil," he said again, forcing himself to speak calmly. "It's a piece of rot in the world. It affects people, it might be able to reach us all the way here, even if we think we can't feel it – don't look at me like that. I'm not mad. If you had seen it, you would understand."

"I don't think you're mad," she said. "I'm just wondering why, if it really is that terrible – that prison has existed for hundreds of years. We have been using it to hold prisoners for so long, so why hasn't anyone else destroyed it?"

"I don't know. Why does that matter? We have to do something about it. Now."

"What do you want to do?"

"I don't know. Destroy it. Overrule the Wizengamot, bribe the noble families, I don't know."

"I can't help you with that," she said.

He felt a violent flash of anger towards the calm, dignified woman across from him, who was so old and claimed to be so good, but who didn't care about this evil just as nobody else cared. Just as he knew they wouldn't.

"Of course you can. You're the headmistress of Hogwarts. You're a member of the Order of the Phoenix. You're a war hero. You have more power now than you will ever have, and if you would just use it-"

Now it was her who interrupted him and her voice was suddenly stern again.

"I am not Albus Dumbledore," she said. "I deal with children, not politics."

Another rush of angry words stopped in his throat and became air. He exhaled. He couldn't make her help him.

"May I leave?" he asked quietly.

He wasn't looking at her anymore.

"Yes," she said and he stood up. "But you can come back here whenever you want to, if you ever want to talk to me again. I still think you might benefit from the therapy. Please tell me if you change your mind about it. And if you have trouble sleeping, you can always go see Madam Pomfrey."

He nodded. He stood next to his chair with a hand on the back of it. He was only half listening to the headmistress now. He was remembering Azkaban, but more than that he was remembering his fight with Potter and wondering why that had happened.

"Would you like me to tell your head of house what we talked about?"

"No thank you."

He was already at the door, his hand on the handle, when she spoke again.

"I know you plan to go into politics once you leave Hogwarts," she said. "I am sure that when you do, you will be able to change things."

He nodded.

"Thank you, professor."

Then he left her office and was carried down the spiralling staircase. He touched the bruise on his chin. He had healed it so it wasn't visible, but it was still sore. He couldn't even recall everything he had said to Potter, but he knew it had been bad. He should have just walked away, not made him hit him, but at that time there had been nothing but bitterness in him. If Potter had just waited one more day before approaching him, it would have been different. It seemed tragically ironic that he had pushed him away just before finding out how much he needed him.