Chapter 2
It is the Fifth year when Dumbledore’s protection fails. Years now have gone by, average grades and never speaking too loud, head down and only wearing green when it is gifted.
But Dumbledore is gone now. Even when he was here, at the start of the year, he wouldn’t look at Harry. Harry tried. He tried everything, from getting angry and raging within number twelve, to increasing the skin contact he made with his friends, leaning into them even more, desperate to show Dumbledore he could love, was capable of it, wanted to.
Dumbledore never looked at him.
Professor McGonagall told him to keep quiet in Umbridge’s class and no matter how hard he tried–to keep Cedric’s body, perfectly pristine, out of his head–she never relented. The scars on his hand kept coming back.
At least Professor McGonagall looked him in the eye. She was safe, at least. She protected him from Umbridge the best she could.
It was staring at the test in his hands, an essay marked with an Acceptable, that Harry knew something had gone wrong.
It was not the mark that surprised him. That, at least, was expected. It was the neat note written next to it that made Harry’s blood go cold.
Come see me.
Maybe that wouldn’t mean much. Professor McGonagall had always supported him, and she could want to discuss Umbridge. Give him some more Murtlap essence.
No, it was the way that he flipped through his work, and knew, without a doubt, that he absolutely could not show this to Hermione. There, on the last page, underneath his own written words and several comments from his professor, was a single, small O.
He stuffed his work into his bag, his heart beating wildly. He knew he had been getting tired. Knew the days were slipping away and it was all he could do to get to class, let alone edit his work into an average mark.
The image of that single O, written in bright red ink, looked so similar to the writing on the wall in second year, bloody and damning.
Hermione sent him a sympathetic look.
“It’s okay, you’re tired.” She mouthed.
Tired enough to have such a monumental screw up he might never be able to come back from. How many times had he been so obvious about it that his professor knew to hide it with an acceptable? Did he forget to switch parchment from his better one, or did she know why he needed to do this? Would she tell Dumbledore?
Calm down. He told himself. One mark couldn’t change anything. If she had noticed, he could just act confused. She didn’t have any proof. He was safe. He wasn’t Tom.
He sat there, stock still in his seat, a carved snake upon the handrails, immovable until Harry spoke. Except his activation was the end of the class.
“My office, Mr. Potter.”
He followed her out. Her tone was neutral, stern as it always was. He couldn’t pick it apart, was this what she sounded like when she was upset? Or was he picking up signals where there were none, as she waited to see what reaction he would take from her, his own a sign of guilt?
He probably had enough money to go on the run, though Voldemort would probably hunt him down. Though that might take awhile, as it’d be pretty idiotic to go after a child who ran away before his power was established.
Then again, if he stayed, he might get to keep his friends. If Professor McGonagall didn’t completely ruin it for him. Okay Harry, you know nothing, and you’re very sorry.
He imagined himself nodding decisively, too scared to do that in case it betrayed a plan, and therefore guilt.
It wasn’t hard to let his face fall into something hesitant and scared, because that was quite frankly all he was feeling at the moment, following at her heels.
“Biscuit, Potter?” She asked. He nodded. Free food was never turned down, though he’d have to be careful where he ate it.
She watched him for a moment, her brows creased. Contemplative wasn’t a word often ascribed to those who watched him, but Professor McGonagall wasn’t one to get angry, either, so perhaps the word would have to fit.
“Is there a problem with your grade?”
Harry shook his head, staring at the Acceptable. “No, Professor.”
She was just looking at him. “Very well. If you deem your grades unacceptable, know that I am always around to help. I would like to grade fairly.”
Her eyes were steely when she looked at him, and Harry couldn’t tell what the threat was. Would she do something, if he didn’t allow her to? He couldn’t control her actions, and if she graded him according to the grade she thought he should receive, there wasn’t much he could do. It seemed, almost, like he was being let off. Like she wasn’t going to do anything at all.
Their positions switched, and suddenly Harry couldn’t stop staring. What was she going to demand in return? He couldn’t get her anything, not really, so there was no motivation to keep him happy.
He was getting used to this from Ron and Hermione–he had sat through several instances of Hermione dropping books about recovery on his bed and refusing to discuss it in person, as well as Ron’s apparent need to include him in everything to the point he had tried inviting him over for Christmas–but a professor? This wasn’t a case of needing him to know something to fight Voldemort, this had no reason to be allowed at all.
It couldn’t be ruled out entirely, of course, but still. One would almost think this for Harry’s sake alone. He shivered at the idea. That was not a route he was willing to go down.
Professor McGonagall softened somewhat, or maybe Harry was imagining it, and handed him two–two–biscuits. “Off you go now.”
Harry leapt from his chair, halfway to Potions class before his brain caught up to what had happened. Professor McGonagall knew. Knew, and wasn’t going to do anything.
Harry was safe. Harry was safe! The smile that broke out on his face was downright giddy, here, where no one could see him but the portraits, and while those would report to the Headmaster, he wouldn’t care about the smile, probably. They probably wouldn’t even tell him Harry was smiling, only that he had come this way, if they did that at all. It wasn’t as if he was going to fight a Basilisk, so they probably wouldn't care much.
The smile died instantly as he entered the dungeons. Potions, of course, was in motion.