The Cat, the Wizard, and the Armchair
Friday, July 12th, 1996
“Keys in ignition. Brake pedal’s down. What am I missing, Big D?”
“Gear shift?”
“D’s for ‘drive’, right?”
“Right.”
“Then yes.”
“Okay,” Dudley Dursely leaned back awkwardly, shifting himself in the passenger seat and glancing out the window as if Mrs. Fig, whom he had stolen this car from, was going to pop out of a bush demanding where her car went at any moment. “Then I guess we’re doing this.”
“You signed up for this, you know,” Harry Potter said, glancing at his cousin through the rearview mirror, who glanced back briefly, then looked away at the mischief glinting in those green eyes. “Yeah I know, I know… Just press the accelerator and start moving, okay! Mum and Dad will start worrying if we aren’t back soon.”
“You mean they’ll start worrying if you aren’t back soon,” Slowly, Harry lifted his foot off the brake and pressed the accelerator. He himself didn’t know what he did that caused the whole car to jolt and Dudley to fly forwards onto the dashboard, but within seconds they were moving smoothly through the figure eights he had already carved into the grass of the empty field they had been practicing in for the past afternoon. Once Dudley had straightened himself in his seat again he was quick to send Harry a glare in the mirror but his cousin merely laughed back.
Neither were of the legal age to drive yet, but there was nothing illegal about learning to drive in an abandoned field in July, either, and in fact Harry recalled Uncle Vernon beginning lessons with Dudley around the same time last summer. Now Dudley had a provisional driving license as a sixteen year old and Harry, not yet sixteen, had kindly asked for lessons. Sure, in the Wizarding World one would think a license was worthless, but he recalled a summer with Ron when he had been desperate to get to his second year at Hogwarts, so one truly never knew with his strange world.
“Y’know this is illegal, right?” Dudley pointed out, large hands gripping his seat tightly as Harry spun the vehicle around a sharp turn in the figure eight. “I’m not an adult and even if I were I’m pretty sure I’d have to be your gua -” He cut himself off from the shock of another sharp turn, this one leaving him gripping the lowered window glass as Harry laughed playfully beside him.
In all honesty, since Harry had come back from Hogwarts he and Dudley had gotten along quite nicely - though they made quite an effort to hide this fact from Vernon and Petunia. Out of their sight, however, the boys had engaged in, not just driving lessons, but ice cream chats, hot dog chats, or even dog walking chats, occasionally stopping to play with Prongs at the park. Harry had even tested a cigarette on one occasion, before promptly deciding he never would again after choking viciously on the smoke and giving Dudley way too much entertainment from it.
Nevertheless the cousins had become something like friends in the past two weeks in Little Whinging, so much so that while Harry’s reckless driving nearly caused Dudley to vomit onto the grassy fields, he would forgive him in a matter of minutes, only if it was because of the belly rubs he got to give the all too happy Prongs.
So it was that the teenage boys drove back to Privet Drive, Dudley taking the lead because neither boy trusted Harry behind the wheel to maintain the facade of an adult, betting on that they wouldn’t get caught because it was so early in the morning there was no way they would be stopped by patrols. And they weren’t - Harry had a keen instinct like that. Instead they were able to drop the car off in Mrs. Fig’s driveway (after discovering she was a mole for the Order of the Phoenix Harry was positive she wouldn’t get mad if she noticed), sneak back into their home, Prongs in toe, and tiptoe back to their opposite bedrooms with mischievous smirks on their lips, shutting the doors just in time for Uncle Vernon to open his, none the wiser to their early morning exports.
-*-*-*-
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly - Was that a cat reading a map?
Vernon Dursley had never hit the brakes on his car faster in his life, as he turned his head sharply out the open window and let his beady eyes dart around the sidewalk, landing on a cat perched on a bench, blinking at him. A black tabby, perfectly normal to be seen sitting alone on a street, and if anything one might take it for a bad omen, but Vernon took it as a lot worse than that.
“No, no, don’t say - It was the same cat, I’m sure of it!” Vernon was now pacing the length of his office at Grunnings, pinching the bridge of his nose as his wife babbled in his ear about how it couldn’t be the same cat because ‘think of what the neighbors would say.’ “And then I swear I saw it read a sign! … No it wasn’t just looking at - It. Was. The. Same. Cat.”
Within minutes he was slamming his phone down to hang up on the call, because he just couldn’t stand his wife’s mindless worries of what the ‘neighbors would see’ at times. Especially when it was just a damn cat that clearly only he was worrying about. But he had every right to worry about it! It wasn’t every day you drive down a street and see a cat reading a map, and then a road sign. In fact, it had only happened to Vernon once before; a fall day quite like today, as he made a point to try to make all his days the same, when he had driven to work and saw a black cat - he was positive it was the very same - reading a map, and then a road sign. It was an unforgettable day, as it was his last day of normalcy filled with nothing normal at all, before Harry bloomin’ Potter was dropped on his doorstep. Quite literally.
And now, it was all happening again. Who was next? A mysterious child of Marge’s?
He brushed the thought from his mind, for he couldn't imagine a world where his sister would even dream of having children, or risking the adventure. So he continued his work. Yelling at people, pacing his office from time to time and seeing phantom people in cloaks whenever he looked out the window. That could be passed as a normal occurrence, if he tried hard enough, however, for he sometimes caught himself doing it just because the paranoia in being even remotely involved in such a strange, foreign, and un-Dursleyish world could easily spark delusions in his mind.
In fact, he didn’t really remember the tabby, so persistent he was in burying himself in his work, until he was driving home, pulling into the driveway, and turning his key, idly looking up out of the window and seeing a pair of round cat eyes blinking at him through circular markings. It was the same one.
And if his neighbors saw the great shriek that rose from the large man then? Well Vernon scarcely ever cared what his neighbors thought afterall, unlike his wife, who would be fussing over it all throughout the night.
-*-*-*-
Blame it on having to wake up so early for driving lessons, or the sleepless nights Harry had been having as of late, now free from visions of doors at the end of long corridors and instead plagued with nightmares once more, but something was keeping the sweet release of sleep from the boys fingertips, hence why, at nearing eleven at night, he could be found slumped against his bedroom window in a chair, snoring in a drowsy nap for the past four hours. Though no one could guess which part of those four hours he’d been asleep for, and not staring uselessly out at this plain, boring, empty street he was forced to call ‘home.’
He was waiting to be picked up from this ‘home’, however, as the letter he held in one hand propped against his knee stated, it’s text lit up by the light of the lamps outside;
Dear Mr. Potter,
On Friday, July 12th, at eleven p.m, be prepared for a visit to number four, Privet Drive, when you and I have business we must attend before I can take you to the Burrow, where you are to spend the rest of your summer holidays by invitation.
Kindly respond immediately by way of owl if these arrangements are convenient to you, and in the meantime I shall look forward to visiting number four, Privet Drive once more.
Sincerely, your Professor,
Minerva McGonagall
The speed at which Harry had written his reply was remarkable but not unsurprising, as even if these two weeks had been the best he’d spent with the Dursleys so far, they still weren’t at all desirable in comparison to the warm sun of the Burrow and the faces of his friends there. Though he had, regrettably, made no effort to pack. It felt too good to be true; that only after a fortnight here he was being picked up from Privet Drive and taken to his friends and the closest family he’d ever known. Besides, he’d so busied himself with driving lessons and walks with Dudley he’d almost forgotten all about the letter.
Which was perhaps why he had taken to leaning against the window in wait for McGonagall, hoping in his neglect she hadn’t arrived early.
He hadn’t been keen enough to look for a black tabby cat, however, which was now jumping down from its perch on the mailbox and stepping up to the front door.
Harry didn’t dare let himself completely fall back into a Muggle life, however, for most of the possessions he had strewn across his room now were newspapers or magazines of the Wizarding World, bearing headlines such as;
MINISTER DECLARES WAR ON YOU-KNOW-WHO
And,
RITA’S RETURN; THE LIFE AND LIES OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE TO RELEASE THIS SUMMER
And of course,
HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE?
And finally,
NEW MEASURES OF SAFETY FOR WIZARDS AND WITCHES
There was even a small purple pamphlet stamped with a picture of the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, in the corner, a man Harry could easily say he knew a lot better than most boys nearing sixteen should know their world leaders. This leaflet read;
ISSUED ON BEHALF OF:
~ The Ministry of Magic ~Department of International Magical Defense
PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY AGAINST DARK FORCES
The Wizarding community is currently under threat from an organization calling itself the Death Eaters. Observing the following simple security guidelines will help protect you, your family, and your home from attack.
1. You are advised not to leave the house alone.
2. Particular care should be taken during the hours of darkness. Wherever possible, arrange to complete journeys before night has fallen.
3. Review the security arrangements around your house, making sure that all family members are aware of emergency measures such as Shield and Disillusionment Charms, and, in the case of underage family members, Side-Along-Apparition.
4. Agree on security questions with close friends and family so as to detect Death Eaters masquerading as others by use of the Polyjuice Potion (see page 2).
5. Should you feel that a family member, colleague, friend, or neighbor is acting in a strange manner, contact the Magical Law Enforcement Squad at once. They may have been put under the Imperius Curse (see page 4).
6. Should the Dark Mark appear over any dwelling place or other building, DO NOT ENTER, but contact the Auror office immediately.
7. Unconfirmed sightings suggest that the Death Eaters may now be using Inferi (see page 10). Any sighting of an Inferius, or encounter with the same, should be reported to the Ministry IMMEDIATELY.
By all accounts Harry thought the Ministry was actually doing quite well in response to its Minister deciding to declare war on Lord Voldemort over live broadcast. If anything these leaflets would certainly save many short-sighted people’s lives, even if the situation wasn’t always as simple as not walking into a house with the Dark Mark hanging above it. Nevertheless, it seemed to be the only thing the Ministry knew to do, and was better than the Daily Prophet, as always.
Instead of providing any real help, as Harry recalled learning a lifetime ago in Muggle primary school that the news did during both World Wars, whether this help proved useful or not, the Prophet was choosing, as always, to rely on gossip. Such as if he, Harry, was their savior, written in old texts and prophesied on the stars to come and vanquish the dark evil of Voldemort. In a sense, that was true; Harry knew this from the prophecy he had been forced to view two weeks ago along with Draco Malfoy and the whole Dark Order. But to the devilish minds at the Prophet it was just gossip either way, even when the whole world was surrounded by the darkness of a very real war.
It was offending; Harry had known since he was a small boy the newspaper was a piece of rubbish but they had clearly hit a new low now.
His alarm, repaired several years ago and set to go off at eleven those four hours ago, now rang obnoxiously, abruptly awaking Prongs from his slumber in the makeshift bed he’d made out of Harry’s nearly empty trunk, and promptly barking loudly, as if the alarm didn’t awake Harry enough.
Which it did, as the wizard boy jolted from his chair and wiped a line of drool off his chin with his sleeve, gazing down at the street and seeing no changes, but still hearing the sharp knock on the door below.
McGonagall was here.
Harry moved as fast as he could in shooing his cruppy who was growing into not much of a puppy anymore out of his trunk so he could jam as many schoolbooks, clothes, and loose possessions in as he could. In fact, according to the book he had purchased from Hogsmeade at the end of his last school year, a crup reached its full development at one year old, which meant Prongs, being a month old when he received him as a Christmas present from his good friend Draco Malfoy, only had until November to grow. And yet he still had the tiny stature and hyper nature of a newborn dog, though the same book said this was to be expected.
Harry Potter quite liked animals, though not as much as his friend Draco had grown to since an incident in their Third Year, though he was considered to be top of his class in Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, and quite talented in Transfiguration. That talent might come in handy on this night, though, as the woman visiting, Professor McGonagall, was his former Transfiguration teacher.
She must have stepped inside the house, because he could hear his Uncle’s raging voice from upstairs, but he couldn’t hear hers, which didn’t surprise Harry in the slightest. While McGonagall could get angry, and was very terrifying when loud, she was also very good at keeping that anger in check. Had mastered that skill over the course of the past school year, in fact, when dealing with the terrible toad that was Dolores Umbridge.
As the shouting continued, Harry thought for a moment that he should have possibly told Uncle Vernon about McGonagall’s visit, but brushed it off by grinning and thinking of how amusing the sight he was about to see was, simply whistling for Prongs to follow as he opened his bedroom door and bounded down the hall and halfway down the stairs, his loyal crup skittering after him at his heels.
And there at the foot of the stairs, looking tall and steadfastly stoic as always, was Professor McGonagall. Her traveling cloak, pointed hat, and robes peeking out underneath were all black, giving her the appearance of a widow in morning, though Harry himself had felt much the same air to him with Dumbledore’s death still being so recent.
Nevertheless the image was as hilarious as he had imagined it being, with McGonagall towering over Uncle Vernon’s short, angry red stature and not looking at all like she was exhausting any energy in doing so. In fact, it reminded Harry of his career’s advice meeting with his Professor in the past school year, where the same women had towered over Dolores Umbridge, and he decided, right then, he was going to enjoy having his former Head of House as his new Headmistress.
“Bad taste in flow - How dare you - Who do you think -”
“Good evening, Mr. Potter,” Harry smiled back and nodded his own greeting when McGonagall looked right above his Uncle and at him. “My deepest apologies that you have to listen to this foolish squabble, but of course you probably already know how annoying your Uncle can be at times,” She lowered her gaze once more to Vernon, sputtering up at him in bewilderment, most likely at her ‘sheer audacity.’ “Being forced to receive his maltreatment for the past, regrettably long, fourteen years. Nearing fifteen.”
Uncle Vernon seemed to be rendered incapable of speech, so McGonagal crossed her hands behind her back and nodded to the living room. “Come along, Potter, I wish to speak with your relatives before we depart.”
Harry didn’t need to be told twice, because Aunt Petunia was standing in the kitchen room doorway, and he was sure this hilarious display would only get more entertaining.
“And there’s the wife,” McGonagall stepped idly away from Uncle Vernon and Harry followed, jumping the final three steps and jogging to his side so he could get a full view of Aunt Petunia’s face as she eyed her up and down, lips forming a thin line as if she had just been handed a failed homework assignment. “I must say Lily seems to have inherited all of the beauty.”
Harry could barely contain his laughter besides smirking at his gaping Aunt while McGonagall turned on her heel and walking into the living room. Oh yeah, he’d love having McGonagall for Headmistress.
Inside the living room Dudley was seated in front of the tele but had clearly just turned it off, arm still outstretched with the remote, and was gaping up at McGonagall with frozen horror, much like his mother was now, but the tall witch only offered him a smile, clearly more inclined to get along with children this evening then adults.
“My name is Minerva McGonagall,” She turned to face the pair of Dursley’s now standing in their own living room doorway like they were the cornered guests while she welcomed them in at the mantelpiece, arms still hidden behind her back and lips again tight in a familiar grim line. “And I am Harry’s Headmistress at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but you, Mr. Dursley,” she nodded to the still very red looking man. “Know me already.”
“What?” He sputtered out, glancing up at his wife, glancing down at him with a horrified expression, and shook his short neck fast. “No, I have no clue who she is - I don’t know you!” She smiled. “Of course, you wouldn’t recognize me like this...”
With a short step forward McGonagall sank to the ground and resumed her cat form, blinking up at him once through the identifiable circles around her eyes, before stepping back on her paws and landing on her feet, in her natural, tall, human form again. Harry didn’t blink an eye, used to watching people transfigure into animals at this point, but the Dursley’s looked scared to the bone, as if they had just seen a ghost or a possessed relative. Briefly, he let himself have the humorous thought, watching their terrified faces, that one had wet themselves.
“Now that that’s out of the way and you can confirm you do in fact know me, let us chat, shall we? I have business tonight and cannot waste time shutting your codfish mouths for you.” McGonagall let go of her hands and retrieved her wand from her sleeve with one, waving it smoothly and causing the couch to rise and sweep Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia off their feet and onto it, then dropping where they had just stood. With another flick she brought Dudley’s chair over beside them. Then a final sweep caused a couch identical to his Aunt and Uncle’s to appear behind her and Harry, and she sat back on it comfortably, keeping her face tight and serious.
“Potter, sit,” She snapped, nodding to the empty spot beside her and he snapped out of his stunned omnipresent view to sit down comfortably, relaxing and allowing himself to grin like a spoiled king at his horrified Muggle family as McGonagall carefully folded her hands on her lap, raising an eyebrow. “Would anyone care for drinks? A biscuit, perhaps?”
No response, but maybe a small frightened squeak from Aunt Petunia.
“Then straight to business; Whether you are aware of it or not - I highly doubt it - Harry is going to be of age within one years time -”
“No,” Perhaps it was the fact that the first words McGonagall had spoken to her were a direct insult that gave Aunt Petunia the courage to speak, but something had to, as she looked the witch straight in the eye and brought herself up to her full long-necked height. “No, he doesn’t. He's a month younger than Dudley, and Dudders doesn't turn eighteen until the year after next.”
McGonagall simply pulled her grim line down into a frown. “You must have not heard me; I said I doubted you would be aware that Harry comes of age in a year, because in the Wizarding World, we come of age at seventeen.”
“Preposterous,” Uncle Vernon could have muttered nothing at all and made no difference, as McGonagall ignored him and pressed on with speaking smoothly, “Now, I would hope you would already know, but I understand if you are just learning of this fact considering the sort of people I’ve observed you to be. Nevertheless, Lord Voldemort has returned and the Wizarding World is currently in open war against him in what has been called the Second Wizarding War. Besides the fact that Voldemort has already murdered both of Harry’s parents, he has also made several attempts against the boy's life, making him in more danger than ever before, even as an infant dropped on your doorstep fifteen years ago. I warned Dumbledore then of the danger he’d be put in that situation, having watched your family for the worst part of twelve hours, but he didn’t listen, and now he never can.”
McGonagall lowered her eyes under her spectacles and onto her lap for a moment, blinking roughly, no doubt trying to keep herself controlled when the topic turned to Dumbledore. Harry offered a comforting hand on her shoulder but she shook it off in a second, looking his Muggle relatives right in the eye to say, “Fifteen years ago Dumbledore left you both a letter explaining the death of Lily and James Potter, and pleading for you to take care of him as if he was your own. I warned him you wouldn’t be safe; that you would no doubt abuse and neglect Harry when all he needed was love and care, and I am afraid to say now that I was right.”
“After observing your behaviors throughout the day, I can see you have not changed. I’ve always attempted, to the best of my ability, to maintain a good relationship with the Muggle Community, having a Muggle father myself, but you two are the worst sort of Muggles I have ever encountered or had the displeasure to meet. I daresay I haven’t met many wizards or witches who could compare either. It would not have been hard to treat Harry fairly and like a son; you had plenty to give, clearly,” She nodded to Dudley, fat and rosy cheeked with overindulgence, turning pink with embarrassment at the slander being targeted against his parents. “And withheld it simply because he was different, and simply because she was too,” She looked directly at Aunt Petunia, and Harry remembered a birthday long, long ago, when his young mind had barely comprehended what he was being told about his mother from his Aunt, who’d never spoken of her before.
“I was the only one who saw her for what she was - a freak!”
And then, what she’d said about him, Harry, fit right into the words that had just come out of McGonagall’s mouth.
“I knew you’d be just the same, just as strange, just as - as - abnormal -”
Looking back, Harry couldn’t understand why he had let such hurtful words go right over his head, until he recalled he had been eleven at the time (it was his birthday, in fact) and had his whole world broken in around him. It had been a lot to process, and he was used to being bullied before, so the normal parts of an otherwise ‘abnormal’ situation naturally flew over his head.
“Unfortunately, Harry has been forced to call this place ‘home’ as long as you didn’t choose to ruin the sick fun you no doubt got out of tormenting a wizard for ten years, so that a powerful protection Dumbledore placed on this house may remain. The seal that binds Harry’s safety to the blood of his family in you, Petunia, will soon die, however. After his seventeenth birthday next summer, you are free to be rid of him in any manner you see fit, and I’m sure you’ll make it the worst.” McGonagall didn’t spare the Dursley’s any less than her worst scowl as she rose from the couch, hands placed behind her back once more.
She seemed to be waiting for the Dursley’s to dare to say anything else, but Uncle Vernon looked like he had something stuck in his throat and Aunt Petunia appeared to be flushed like a tomato, so instead she nodded to Harry, sat staring at the amusing display with a gaping mouth, and raised one eyebrow.
“Go get your things, Potter, we’re leaving.”
Harry grinned. Leaving. To think, after only a fortnight he was getting rescued from his hold at the Dursley house. He sprung to his feet and bolted back up the stairs to slam the last few things into his trunk fast, Prongs already waiting beside a madly hooting Hedwig, still locked in her cage. When he had returned to the bottom of the steps McGonagall was again standing at the door, checking her reflection in the mirror above the shoe stand. Prongs let out a happy bark and jumped in a circle around her, and she merely smiled softly, reaching down to scratch his ear.
“Prongs, was it? Potter if it is alright with you I’ll be sending your things to the Burrow while we make our last stop of the night.” Harry nodded, placing his trunk at her feet and allowing her to wave her wand and vanish the trunk, cage, Hedwig, and Prongs into thin air.
“I never got good at Vanishing charms,” He noted with a shake of his head but McGonagall merely frowned, raising her eyebrows high. “You still have two years. Transfiguration class doesn’t end just because the former Professor is Headmistress, Potter, I’ve already hired a replacement. I believe you’ve met her, in fact.”
“Really, who?”
“Hestia Jones. She was part of the Advance Guard that escorted you from Privet Drive -” “Last year, yeah, I remember.” And if he tried hard enough he could picture a pink cheeked witch examining Aunt Petunia’s toaster as if it was alien technology full of wonder and mystery. Hardly the type he’d pictured to take the empty Transfiguration spot.
“Are we ready?” Harry tucked his hands in his pockets and bent back to call out a short, “Bye!” to the Dursley’s and McGonagall waved her wand, letting the door swing open and a rush of cool night air hit them. “Then off we go.” And off they went, the door to Number 4, Privet Drive slamming shut behind them.
-*-*-*-
Harry had traveled by side-along-apparition once before, but had been in such a state of shock in that situation, he recalled none of the truly revolting feeling it gave a wizard. He’d grabbed Fred or George’s hand in the middle of the dark outside the burning remains of Malfoy Manor three weeks ago, all his friends at his side as they traveled back to Grimmauld Place via the older boys, but they were coming out of the burning remains of Malfoy Manor. Who could blame him if he had been in a little too much shock to recall the feeling of being thrust through space itself.
But what’s done is done, and he here was, bent over and gripping his knees while trying to steady his breathing and watching with wide eyes as McGonagall calmly walked across the street they’d landed on. “Is that what apparating feels like all the time?” He asked after her but she responded with a short, “No.” and only that, so he sighed and jogged forwards to keep up with her, hoping that the apparition tests he knew he was going to take that year at school wouldn’t feel like that every time, and he’d get used to the disgusting feeling soon, especially as a foul tasting bile rose up in his throat before he swallowed it back down.
They walked for a long time in silence, Harry glancing warily around at the empty street corners (it must be about midnight now) and vacant windows in Muggle homes, before he finally stepped a little closer to McGonagall and, feeling very awkward, as he didn’t suppose it was appropriate to converse with a teacher outside of school bounds but they were certainly going to have to break down a lot of barriers with the War going on and Dumbledore dead, he asked, “Professor? Where exactly are we?”
“Budleigh Babberton. And, before you ask, Potter, we’re actually here to hire a new member for the staff at the school.”
Harry frowned, puzzled. “But you just said Hestia -”
“Hestia is going to fill in the vacant Transfiguration post, but I would hope you have noticed, after so many years, that there is always another certain empty spot on the staff each year you start, hm Potter? And I am in no hurry to let the Ministry take over and put in one of their dogs again.” Harry couldn’t help the spark of rebellious joy that lit at the way McGonagall sneered here, recalling her particular hatred for Umbridge, but didn’t let himself show it, wanting to appear a respectful student.
“And why do you need me to do that?”
McGonagall paused at the foot of a steep and narrow street, deeply sighing, eyes shut, and for a moment Harry worried he’d annoyed her before… “I’m not sure.”
“What?” “Every former Headmaster gets their portrait hung among other former Headmasters of Hogwarts when they retire or pass away, and I was simply following the directions of Dumbledore’s portrait to bring you here. I do not know how you can help me at the moment, as he was, as usual, quite vague in his request.” She should have sounded annoyed but instead Harry noticed the corner of her lips tipping upward, and couldn’t blame her one bit; The mere fact that Dumbledore was still able to give directions to people from the grave brought him joy, along with the thought that he was still able to accomplish things for him like he used to.
But then again, he hadn’t the faintest clue what he was meant to do to help recruit someone to the staff at Hogwarts, especially the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Everyone knew, though they wouldn’t say it out loud at school or even otherwise beyond slight nods, the curse that hung over the position, where a professor couldn’t secure a job for longer than a year. Death, firing, even loss of memory could be named as fates for DADA teachers but any means all meant the same thing; bad luck. A curse. Harry couldn’t blame the fact that Hogwarts now had to resort to sneaking around at night in a dilapidated Muggle area of England.
They at last came to a stop - or McGonagall did, Harry stumbling to a head behind her - and Harry looked up to see McGonagall was frowning deeply, frozen stiff at the sight before him, and, following her gaze, he saw that while the waist high gate beneath them was clean and the path to the stone cottage in front of them clear, the front door had been blown open, hanging by one limp hinge and shaking in the whistling air.
“Professor -”
“Keep your wand up, Potter,” Harry didn’t need to be told that, but he understood it was best not to press on with his intended question and instead followed McGonagall carefully along the stone path beyond the gate. As soon as they’d stepped within the hidden security of the house she whispered, “Lumos.” and the narrow hallway before them instantly lit up, showing them another open door, this one slightly more stable but still ajar on two hinges. Carefully, they stepped inside and -
It was horrible. The clock splintered, the piano turned, a chandelier shattered with its shimmering crystals scattered about it, cushions torn so that their feathers littered the floor similarly, and powdering this mess of feathers and crystal was a powder of glass and china. Harry was wincing at just this damage but when McGonagall raised her wand and sucked in a quick breath he looked up and nearly gagged, swallowing hardly instead at the splatter of dark red blood all over the wallpaper.
“Maybe…” Harry had to be hopeful, because none of this looked good, and McGonagall had stepped forward to cast her wand light over every inch of the torn apart living room and he was worried it would soon land on a hand or a foot or worse, the whole body. “There was a fight and - and they dragged them off?”
“No.” His Headistress said shortly and turned away from peering into a shattered mirror to swiftly fire a jet of bright orange light across the room and into the overturned armchair, making Harry nearly jump out of his sick in surprise but he soon got a rush of fright again as the armchair surprisingly gave it’s own sound of alarm.
“Ouch! Minerva, honestly -”
“Good to see you again too, Horace.”
What he once thought to be an armchair was now turning its round head and massaging its even rounder belly, revealing itself to be a squatting old man, frowning up at a just as grumpy looking McGonagall through squinted eyes.
“You didn’t need to get so hasty with the wand there, you could’ve just poked me,” The old man stumbled to his feet and brushed off his silk pajamas to turn his chin up and face McGonagall, her wand light lighting up all his features brightly, from a pair of prominent eyes, to a walrus like mustache. “What gave it away?”
“You are aware Horace,” McGonagall folded her arms before her, clasped lightly over her wand, “that it is customary and tradition for a Death Eater to place the Dark Mark over any house they destroy or even enter.”
In a second, behaving not at all like his home was being invaded in the night when he’d clearly made an effort to not be found, the man Harry assumed to be ‘Horace’ smacked his hand against his forehead to an exclamation of, “The Dark Mark! Knew there was something… ah well. Wouldn’t have had any time anyway, I'd only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room.” He sighed deeply, but that was the only sign he gave saying he was upset with the whole situation.
“Well, find you we have, despite your best efforts to evade me this summer,” McGonagall sweeped her wand across the mess and the shorter wizard instantly retrieved his own, making much the same motions as she did. “I don’t dare ask why, though it does confuse and concern me that you would skip even Dumbledore’s funeral. For what? Whatever petty reason you ignored his methods of contact as well?”
As their wands swept over the mess it righted itself by magic, and Harry watched in wonder, as he always did, as furniture stood back on the ground the way it should, stuffed with feathers once more, shattered glass rose to be reset into their frames and any rip, crack, or hole in the walls resealed as knick knacks and other various items flew back onto their shelves.
“The business between Dumbledore and I - what business we had - it doesn’t matter anymore.” The wizard said, having to shout over the chandelier grinding itself back into the ceiling while the clatter of its crystals resetting rang out over it. McGonagall muttered, “I beg to differ…” Just as the last crystal flew back into place, leaving the room eerily quiet and still. Sighing, the wizard’s eyes turned and found Harry at last, standing awkwardly in front of the sofa.
“Oho,” His eyes no doubt must have spotted the ever present and obvious lightning-shaped scar as they widened in the same way any wizard had upon first meeting the boy. “Oho!”
“This is Harry Potter,” McGonagall said, swiftly coming to stand between him and the wizard as if there was any need to introduce the most famous fifteen year old in history. “And Harry, this is an old friend and colleague of mine; Professor Horace Slughorn.” The way she said ‘friend’ sounded as if he was anything but but Harry nodded and smiled warmly anyway. Slughorn looked anything but impressed.
“Just Slughorn, boy, I’m not a Professor anymore,” He turned to glare up at McGonagall, folding his arms. “Did Dumbledore seriously put finding me in his will? Well the answer’s still no, and this boy isn’t going to change it.” The Headmistress blinked, glancing back at Harry as realization slowly dawned on her features when her eyes slowly found a desk sitting just beside him with a wide assortment of frames arranged on it.
“So that’s why you're here…” She almost smiled, gaze settling on Harry once more, and he felt the familiar creeping of embarrassment that came with always being gawked at like some circus act. It almost came as a relief when Slughorn shook his head and pushed right past him, grumbling to himself as he walked, but McGonagall didn’t look disheartened in the slightest. Instead gesturing with her wand over to a cupboard beside them. “Well could we at least have a drink, then? Like the old friend’s we once were?”
Slughorn paused in the door, then slowly turned to follow McGonagall’s gesture to the cupboard Harry assumed housed drinks and his shoulders slumped. “Alright… But only because of Dumbledore.” McGonagall smiled sadly, and Harry knew exactly what he meant by that.
As soon as Slughorn had turned away to prepare the drinks, however, McGonagall’s soft smile dropped and she flicked her wand from Harry to a chair beside the fire, which he curiously sat in, but once Slughorn turned he knew why; the first person he was was he, Harry, making him give a little, “Hmpf,” sound as he blinked rapidly after turning away. Did Harry feel especially embarrassed and gawked at now? Yes, but clearly there was a purpose to all of this, he just wasn’t ‘in on it’ yet.
“To Albus,” McGonagall smiled and Slughorn repeated it along with Harry as all three raised their glasses before taking a sip. Harry frowned slightly when he realized he’d been given water, as he’d imagined briefly he was going to get alcohol and get to rub it in Ron’s face.
“How have you been, Horace?” McGonagall asked and Slughorn, having been made very grumpy in a very short minute, immediately snapped, “Not so well. Weak chest. Wheezy. Rheumatism too. Can’t move like I used to. Well, that’s to be expected. Old age. Fatigue.”
McGonagall nodded along, sipping at her drink. “Interesting… And yet you prepared all of that mess in three minutes, didn’t you? Can’t be that out of practice.” She was pestering him, clearly, on whatever it was Harry wasn’t privy to in this conversation, but Slughorn scowled deeply at her, mumbling, “Two.” and taking a long sip. “But I’m still old, you know. Tired and old and I have every right to a quiet life and a few creature comforts.”
“I’ve known wizard’s much older than you doing much more -”
“Don’t guilt me!” Slughorn snapped, then leaned back in his sofa and rubbed at his temples so that his short legs dangled precariously over the floor. McGoangall didn’t relent, instead sipping at her tea before placing it on the coffee table before them and saying, “I’m not, merely pointing out that if you are aged, as you claim to be, then you must be longing to find safety from all these Death Eater’s coming to knock on your door, in which Hogwarts is the safest option. And if you are lying to me, and you are quite healthy enough to defend against Death Eater’s, certainly you are spry enough to keep teaching. Why would one quit in the first place?”
Slughorn frowned, staring into the depths of the drink in his glass and mumbling, “You know how it was. He had the most power then, and people were scared. I was -”
“Plenty of wizards and witches fought in the first war, they didn’t run from it. You taught those students -”
“And I am proud of what they did,” His head shot up, his gray eyebrows pulled down tightly as he waved a finger at McGonagall. “Don’t you dare assume I’m not. Look here,” He snapped his fingers over at the stand with the various photographs on it, pointing his finger at different ones with each name he listed as he said, “Marlene McKinnon; consistently made me the best antidotes I’ve ever seen. Hestia Jones; I share a box with her every Quidditch game I go to to support her sister. Frank Longbottom; boy was a genius with a stirring spoon. Benjy Fenwick; always came to me eager to explain the reaction he got from mixing different potions. Lily -”
Slughorn stopped. His hand flopped to his side and he turned away from gazing at his photograph collection, but not before Harry followed his finger to the last picture, sitting at the top row of his stand, crammed between two others, but moving with life in the candlelight as all magical pictures did. As the light shone upon the girl in the picture laughing and waving, a pair of green eyes identical to his own blinked at Harry, and he felt a knot form instantly in his throat, choking him.
“You’ll find, at Hogwarts, there is an up and coming new generation of wizards and witches as talented as all those in those pictures, Horace,” McGonagall said, though Slughorn wasn’t looking at her anymore, eyes now fixed upon Harry, the temptation he had been fruitlessly resisting finally taking him over.
“I know. I’ve seen it in the papers - the Hogwarts Order of Defense? Is that what you called it?” Harry couldn’t help but smile a little at the memory of forty-three kids crammed into the Room of Requirement. Spells flying this way and that, Patronuses floating in the air. The thrill that came with rebelling, and actually getting to feel useful to the world as they aided their Minister and slowly worked towards taking down Umbridge. “Yeah, that’s what we were.”
“Incredible,” Slughorn leaned forward in his seat, placing down his glass and looking at Harry now with a light to his eyes. “You know, when I was a Professor I worked with my colleagues to form a Duelling Club. We got such a good selection of kids for a couple years - I think seven - that we even got the Ministry to organize an inter-school competition! Before that I’d had the Wizarding Schools Potions Championship, of course, but that never got the sort of recognition this group did. I still keep in touch with each of those students.”
“Do you?” At last Slughorn tore his gaze from Harry - he slumped a little in relief to not be gawked at anymore - to McGonagall, as she raised an eyebrow. “Even living as a hermit? Cut off from society?”
In a second, the light had fled Slughorn’s eyes, and he too slumped, lowering his bald head to frown at his carpet as he processed McGonagall’s words. “Yes… I suppose so…”
“Horace,” He looked up, pained, tired, and old, but McGonagall smiled, so that it was just two equally elderly teacher’s conversing, and Harry might as well have been invisible. “You are a teacher. And a darn good one too, I think. Don’t pretend you don’t love the look in children’s eyes as they recount to you the dreams they hope to achieve, and don’t pretend you don’t enjoy getting to guide them to reaching those dreams. I don’t know what you're fearing back at Hogwarts, but - and I can’t emphasize this enough - Albus is dead. We’re at war, and you just aren’t safe on your own anymore, not to mention don’t you want to spend the last couple years of the wizarding world doing what you love?”
Harry didn’t choose to linger on how she had just openly admitted that the odds were not in their favor in this war with Dumbledore falling so quickly, because at last, Slughorn looked convinced.
“Ah, Minerva,” He lifted up his glass, tipping it to her and smiling. “You always had a way of convincing me. Alright, I’ll do it.” He took a sip as McGonagall sent Harry a smirk and a wink, but then swallowed and cleared his throat. “But I expect a raise, of course.”
The Headmistress smiled, tipping her glass to him as well, and Harry found himself sipping from his own, mesmerized by the whole scene. “Of course, Professor.” Slughorn choked on his drink and rolled his eyes.