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James steps out of her fireplace and even if Albus hadn’t sent word ahead, Minerva would know what had happened just from his face – red-rimmed eyes, half wiped away tear tracks, and a look of total incomprehension that’s terribly out of place on this boy who’s mastered every classroom lesson without trying.
She says “James,” stepping towards him and reaching out to pat his shoulder, unsure of the best way to proceed, but the decision is made for her by James collapsing against her, requiring her to wrap her arms around him. It’s far more physical contact than she’s used to with a student and it’s awkward at first, but she finds she can’t begrudge it, as James cries into her shoulder with a lack of self-consciousness rarely seen in teenage boys.
She’d long since realized that James was doted on by his parents – spoiled, she’d thought, in her less charitable moments – and this is one more piece of proof, the way he easily accepts her affection and comfort. Except now his most reliable source of it is gone, and Minerva has to fight back her own tears at the thought.
He eventually composes himself and pulls away from her. “Thanks,” he says wetly.
“I’m so sorry,” Minerva responds, and it’s horribly inadequate but what wouldn’t be? “Your parents will be deeply missed.”
James manages a strangled, “Yeah,” and for a moment she thinks the tears might return, but he just blinks rapidly for a minute before speaking again. “I should go, Sirius and the others are probably worried.”
“Of course,” she says and for all that they’ve annoyed her as a professor, she’s intensely glad now that James has his friends.
He turns to leave, but she feels compelled to add something else. “You know I’m here, if you ever want to talk. Or not talk, even.”
He gives her a smile at that – a small one, yes, but real. “Yeah. Thanks, Professor,” he says, before leaving her office.
The worst thing is, there’s no drastic change after Sirius dies. Harry is perhaps a bit more quiet and withdrawn, but that could almost be chalked up to Ron and Hermione being confined to the hospital wing. It’s not that she’d prefer him to weep or wail or employ any of the other dramatics that often accompany grief, exactly, but a nagging part of her can’t help but think that Harry is far more used to loss than any fifteen-year-old should be.
She feels she ought to do something, offer some kind of support, but Harry is so stubbornly independent that she’s unsure of how to approach him. And with classes and exams over, there’s no obvious reason for them to interact.
But when she encounters him by chance in an empty corridor, she finds she can’t pass without saying anything.
“I’m so sorry about Sirius,” she states without preamble.
Harry turns to face her, though he looks like he’d much rather not have this conversation. “Thanks,” he mumbles.
It’s not an auspicious start, but she presses on anyway. “Professor Dumbledore told me that you tried to contact Sirius that evening. I can’t help but think that if I had been here –” she breaks off.
“It wasn’t your fault! We all saw what happened during our Astronomy OWL; even the examiner was outraged. And it was really good of you to try to help Hagrid,” he adds, and she’s briefly warmed by his staunch affection for the groundskeeper.
“It wasn’t your fault either,” she says gently. His eyes go suspiciously bright and she thinks he might open up, just a little, but then he blinks it away and the moment passes. He crosses his arms and takes a half-step backwards, clearly wanting to leave, but Minerva makes one last try.
“If you ever want to talk to someone – about Sirius or anything else – I hope you know you can come to me, Harry.”
“Of course, Professor,” he says, not meeting her eyes. “Bye,” he tacks on a beat later, and all but flees the corridor.