Minie Minie, Oh Professor Minie
In Hogwarts the shenanigans never end. First it was some bigger than them problems that constantly put their lives at danger but now that they have dealt with those everything seems rather insignificant they all deal with one of a kind ‘Fuck you’ attitude.
Class of Hogwarts 1991-1998 were currently the senior most students of Hogwarts and for some reason they still managed to be the most chaotic set of students McGonagall has ever had to deal with and when Minerva had these thoughts, she often thought of James, Remus and Sirius (sorry folks Peter is a bad memory) – The Marauders, they’d call themselves.
All students after the war had this weird sort of attitude as if they couldn’t take anything seriously now, understandable. Minerva thinks her kids are allowed some slack in lives after they lived days with no confirmation of seeing another sunrise at the mere age of 17. But most of all Harry James Potter— The name is self-explanatory, had this odd air about him recently and Minerva knew he was hiding something.
There was something about the magic of the boy that had shifted other than his attitude which Minerva couldn’t place the finger on.
There was something up with the boy, Minerva could feel it in the hum of his magic. She sometimes wish she could be a little bit more for the boy she held as an infant, help and support him when he needed. And she was also prepared to let the students deal with their own coping mechanisms and not have Hogwarts as a bad memory for any of them, any coping mechanisms as long as they are borderline unhealthy or dangerous.
What she didn’t expect however was the…It was a curious thing, truly—a curious and rather disconcerting thing—that Harry Potter and none other than Draco Malfoy, two young men who had every reason to remain at opposite ends of the castle, had somehow concocted this... arrangement, if one could even call it that. Minerva McGonagall had seen her fair share of oddities within these ancient walls, but this—this sharp-tongued sparring dressed as flirtation, this habit of slinging barbed words that skirted the edge of cruelty yet somehow didn’t quite tip over—was a new brand of absurdity entirely. She had hoped, foolishly hoped, that Hogwarts might serve as a haven for healing, a balm to the burns of war, not a stage for this macabre pantomime of barely concealed fascination. And yet, here they were, Potter and Malfoy, trading their tragic histories like a pair of bumbling bohemians swapping dramatic anecdotes over tea. It was deeply unsettling, and yet... she couldn’t quite summon the words to stop them, for something in the way their magic crackled against one another told her that this was not hers to interfere with. Still, she wondered, how in Merlin's name had it come to this?
She couldn’t have much of a say there because in long after 3 years, Harry seemed actually…happy. The boy still looked too exhausted to smile sometimes Minerva was no obtuse head, but she could also see how with Draco Malfoy, and only Draco Malfoy, the boy was bearing now mask, no clasps over his fangs, it was fascinating indeed to see the two indibisuals suddenly be so…raw in only and only each other’s vicinity.
Minerva couldn’t say she hated it.
“Mr. Potter.” She called up the boy when he was exiting the transfiguration classroom like rest of his peers. “A word.” She said when the boy looked at her. “In my office.” She added.
Minerva leaned back in her chair, watching as Harry fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. For all his courage, the boy—no, the young man now—still carried that nervous energy she’d first noticed when he stood under the Sorting Hat. “Harry,” she began, her tone softer than her usual crisp cadence, “I’ve seen magic grow in all manners over the years. Some gradually, like a sapling finding its roots, and some bursting forth like a wildfire, uncontrollable and unyielding. Yours… well, yours has always been exceptional, but now it’s different—stronger, yes, but also unpredictable. It hums in the air when you’re near, like the castle itself is trying to tell me something.” Her gaze sharpened, though her voice remained kind. “You must tell me if you feel it slipping out of your grasp. I’m here, Potter, whether you need guidance or simply someone to listen. No heroics, no stubborn independence, just honesty.”
Harry’s lips twitched, almost a smile, though his shoulders remained tense. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, Professor. I just… don’t know how. It’s like trying to describe a dream you’ve half-forgotten. I don’t fully understand it myself yet. But when I do, when I can put it into words, you’ll be the first to know. I swear.”
Minerva regarded him for a moment, her expression softening in a way that she rarely allowed to show. There it was, that flicker of James in the tilt of his head, Sirius in the way his words carried just the faintest trace of rebellion, and Lily in the quiet vulnerability he tried so hard to hide. “Very well, Mr. Potter,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “But don’t wait too long. Even the best of us can get lost in our own heads. And let me remind you that seeking help is not a weakness, no matter what misguided notions you may have inherited from your godfather.”
Harry’s eyes crinkled at the edges, and for a moment, she thought he might laugh, but instead, he simply nodded. “Thank you, Professor. Really.”
As he turned to leave, she let out a small sigh, the kind that carried more fondness than exasperation. “Oh, and Harry,” she called after him, her voice taking on that unmistakable edge of dry wit, “whatever this… thing is between you and Mr. Malfoy, try not to turn it into a spectacle. The portraits have been scandalized enough as it is.” When he froze, half-turning to look back at her, his ears burning red.
“I-uh Y-yes Professor.” He closed the door exactly like she expected him to— in a hurry to dash away.
She added, almost to herself but she knew he could hear, “Honestly, the pair of you couldn’t be less subtle if you tried.”
Harry hurried down the corridor, his footsteps echoing faintly against the stone walls of Hogwarts. His mind was racing, his chest inexplicably tight, and there was a heat blooming under his skin that he didn’t fully understand.
What the hell was that? Minerva McGonagall, of all people, had just… what?
Hinted that she’d noticed something going on between him and Malfoy? Malfoy! He shoved his hands into his pockets, as if that might somehow ground him, but his fingers were tingling with something—not magic exactly, but some kind of restless energy that had been bubbling up more and more lately.
He tried to focus on the way the castle smelled after a rain, the familiar creak of the staircase ahead of him, anything but the fact that his ears were still burning. It wasn’t like she’d said anything outright—nothing he couldn’t deny if it came down to it—but the way she’d looked at him, the knowing tilt of her head, like she could see straight through him… Merlin, she probably could.
And then there was Malfoy, the center of this whole storm. Harry tried not to think about the way Malfoy’s drawl sometimes lingered in his mind longer than it should, or the strange thrill he felt whenever they traded insults like sparring partners with no intention of stopping. But now, with McGonagall’s words ringing in his ears, it all felt... exposed, like she’d pointed a spotlight at something he hadn’t even realized was there.
He pressed a hand to his face, trying to cool the strange heat spreading to his cheeks. Was he blushing? No—he didn’t blush. That wasn’t a thing he did. It was probably just... residual embarrassment. Or frustration. Or some other perfectly reasonable reaction to the ridiculous situation he’d found himself in.
Whatever this is between you and Mr. Malfoy…
“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered under his breath, shaking his head as if that might dislodge the memory. It didn’t. If anything, it only made the words feel heavier. “There’s nothing between me and Malfoy. Nothing.” He said it aloud, as if that might make it true.
But for some reason, his stomach twisted, and he felt a pang of something he couldn’t quite name. Whatever it was, he decided firmly, it was McGonagall’s fault. Hers and her uncanny ability to throw him completely off balance with just a few well-chosen words.
Harry slouched back into the armchair, hands hanging loosely over the sides as he stared at the faint golden glow flickering at his fingertips. It didn’t hurt, but it was unnerving—like he was a conduit for something too vast to contain, and it was slipping through the cracks despite his best efforts. Across from him, Hermione’s sharp eyes darted between his hands and his face, while Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his expression equal parts concern and curiosity.
“Well, it’s good McGonagall knows,” Hermione said, her tone brisk, though it didn’t quite hide the worry underneath. “She’s the best person to help if…when this develops further. You trust her, don’t you?”
“Of course, I do, Who’d I trust if not her.” Harry muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I told her I’d let her know when I’ve figured it out myself, which, obviously, I haven’t. But at least she’s not pushing.” He flexed his fingers, watching as the golden glow shimmered faintly, like sunlight through water. “I just wish this would stop. It’s... distracting.”
“Distracting?” Ron repeated, tilting his head. “Mate, I don’t think it’s supposed to stop. Magic doesn’t just... settle down like that. You’re brimming with it, and it’s humming all around you. I can feel it—like the air’s heavier near you.” He paused,
“The humming?” Hermione questioned.
“You can't?” Ron asked, “Even Neville mentioned it.” He turned back to Harry, brow furrowing. “Why are you still so restless? You’ve got McGonagall in your corner, and you’ve been holding it together all day. So what’s keeping you wound up?”
Harry opened his mouth to answer, then immediately regretted it as the words tumbled out. “It’s just Mal—oh, nothing.” His jaw snapped shut, and his face burned, but the damage was done.
Hermione’s eyes sharpened instantly. “Malfoy?” she repeated, her tone like a scalpel.
Ron sat up straighter, blinking in confusion. “What’s Malfoy got to do with anything?”
“Nothing,” Harry said quickly, the heat creeping up his neck now spreading to his ears. “It’s... he’s just... irritating, that’s all. You know, usual Malfoy nonsense. Stirring things up.” He waved a glowing hand vaguely, as if that would erase the slip.
Hermione’s gaze was piercing, but she didn’t press, and Ron leaned back again, though he still looked mildly suspicious. Harry exhaled slowly, his heart pounding as he fought the inexplicable urge to fidget. He wasn’t even sure what he’d meant by that.
But as the conversation shifted, Harry couldn’t shake the weight of their stares—or the way his magic flared just a little brighter at the mention of Malfoy’s name.
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers still faintly glowing as Hermione and Ron exchanged looks. He should have known better than to think he could brush this off with them.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Ron said, sitting up straighter, his tone both accusatory and amused. “You’re not getting an out of this, Chosen One. Spit it out—what exactly happened? Did you see Malfoy before coming here?”
Harry’s head shot up, his expression almost defensive. “What? No! I didn’t—” He stopped, his ears going pink as he realized how defensive that sounded. “Well, not really. I mean, I didn’t see him.”
Ron raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “That’s not a ‘no,’ mate.”
Hermione leaned forward, her hands clasped together like she was about to start an interrogation. “Harry, just tell us what happened. What did Professor McGonagall say?”
Harry hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck as he avoided their gazes. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, though the words sounded weak even to him. When neither of them moved, he sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Fine. She... she might’ve mentioned something about Malfoy.”
Hermione’s eyebrows shot up, while Ron let out a low whistle. “Go on,” he said, grinning like this was the most entertaining thing he’d heard all day.
Harry groaned, glaring at the floor as if it had personally wronged him. “She said... she said, ‘whatever this is between you and Mr. Malfoy,’” he mumbled, his voice so low they had to lean in to catch it. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean! It’s—it’s weird. And wrong. And—what does that even mean? There’s nothing between us. Nothing!” He was stammering now, his words tripping over each other as his ears turned an even darker shade of red. “We just—he’s annoying, alright? He’s Malfoy. That’s all there is to it. I don’t—why would she even say that?”
As Harry rambled, Ron and Hermione exchanged a knowing look, one that Harry didn’t miss but absolutely did not understand. Hermione’s lips pressed together like she was fighting the urge to smile, while Ron looked like he was enjoying himself far too much.
“What?” Harry demanded, his voice cracking slightly. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing,” Hermione said quickly, though the corner of her mouth twitched. “Absolutely nothing.”
Ron, of course, wasn’t nearly as subtle. “It’s just—well, it’s funny, isn’t it?” He grinned, his eyes twinkling. “You’re all worked up over Malfoy, and McGonagall of all people noticed. That’s... something, isn’t it?”
Harry glared at him, his fingers curling into fists as the faint golden glow brightened for just a moment. “There’s nothing to notice,” he insisted. “Malfoy and I—we don’t—we’re not—”
But the words wouldn’t come, and Hermione’s soft, knowing smile didn’t help. “Of course not,” she said gently, though her tone made it clear she didn’t believe him for a second.
Harry slumped further to the chair, burying his face in his hands grumbling, “I hate you both.”
“We all know you love us mate.”
Now that everyone knows no one will touch Harry Potter, its more than clear that Harry is going to get any job he breathes in the direction of. So Harry did the first thing Hermione predicted. He stopped studying.
“You still have to score in the N.E.W.T.S, Harry, they happen for a reason.” Hermione complained at the distracted boy.
“You know that’s not true Hermes.” Neville said. “Harry did you even try to see the estates that you have to handle once you’re out of Hogwarts.”
Harry groaned, both the topics requiring more number of braincells than he was willing to use. “I…I saw those actually.” He supplies very helpfully.
“Uh huh. I totally believe you mate.” Neville said.
Ron snorts, “The other day Percy- ever the snob prick he is, told eberyone begrudgingly about the number of Ancient houses you’re heir of Harry, I didn’t even bother to hear, as if being a Potter wasn’t impressive enough.”
“Do we really have to get all societal and political about it?” Ginny sighed, she’d rather her friends talk about Quidditch than…whatever this was.
“You don’t Gin, you’re not the eldest or an onlyborn for that matter.”
“Precisely, Ginny still has a year, once we’re all out of school we will have to deal with those adult things the adults talk about.”
“But I agree with—”
“We know.” “We know.” Both Hermione and Neville said in unison cutting the savior's words. “You are an heir to three ancient family houses Harry.”
“Wow I didn’t know that.” “I didn’t know that.” Both Ron and Harry said respectively.
“You said you saw those papers Harry?” Neville raised an eyebrow voice filled with heavy judgement.
Hermione sighed, It was supposed to be a rare quiet moment at Hogwarts but offcourse giving in to the stereotypes they were Gryffindors afterall, as if the chaos in a *library* wasn’t enough—naturally, Draco entered the scene. He spotted Harry from across the room and, in typical fashion, couldn't resist a jab.
Draco strolled up to Harry’s table, tapping his fingers lightly on the wood. “Potter. Fancy seeing you in a library. I thought books weren’t really your thing.”
Harry, not looking up from his parchment, muttered, “I like books just fine, Malfoy. Not that you’d know, considering you spent half your time last year crying in the Room of Requirement.”
Draco smirked as if that was the best prompt for another insult, leaning on the table. “Ah, yes. I needed the alone time. Couldn’t handle watching you do that mind-meld thing with Voldemort. Honestly, it was sickening. Almost romantic, if you think about it.”
Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Romantic? Well, I guess that makes you the jealous ex, right?”
Draco chuckled darkly. “Oh, please. Jealous? Hardly. I’m just surprised you didn’t elope. That connection of yours could’ve been something special.”
At the next table over, Blaise and Theo exchanged amused glances, trying not to burst out laughing. Blaise raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what’s weirder—the fact that they keep bringing up Voldemort or the fact that they find this entertaining.”
Theo smirked. “I’d say it’s a bit of both. You’d think they were flirting, but… well, this is Potter and Malfoy we’re talking about.”
Hermione, exasperated, glanced up from her book, eyes narrowing at Draco. “Malfoy, are you here to study, or do you just follow Harry around now?”
Draco didn’t miss a beat. “Why, Granger, are you jealous? Don’t worry, I’ll leave Potter to his… studies. Despite how factually wrong the two words are in a sentence.”
Harry grinned and gave Hermione a wink. “No need to worry, Hermione. He’s just obsessed with me. Can’t blame him, can you?”
Hermione let out a frustrated sigh. “You two are impossible.”
Luna, who had been quietly reading nearby, looked up with her usual serene smile. “It’s nice to see people so close. I think it’s sweet.”
Harry and Draco turned to her, blinking in surprise. Then they looked at each other and Hermione could swear Draco’s pale cheeks flushed before he immediately turned around making strides to his own table, while Harry wasn’t as good at laughing in his hand as he thought he was.