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The funeral had been awful, even more so than Minerva had expected. Even several days after his death, it had shocked her to see Albus’s tomb. He had been such a fixture at Hogwarts for so long that Minerva had never managed to truly imagine his absence. And the service itself hadn’t helped, for it had felt very removed from her own loss. It had been a funeral for Headmaster Dumbledore, Supreme Mugwump, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and noted alchemist, not for Albus, her longest friend.
Still, she lingered after the service, letting the nearby conversations wash over her without taking in any of the words. Eventually, she roused herself enough to notice Harry and the Minister speaking to each other by the lake, Scrimgeour’s face going a distinctive purple colour. She approached them, and heard the tail end of what Harry was saying.
“… through and through. That’s right.”
Scrimgeour turned and left at that, a dark expression on his face. A muttered “Professor,” as he passed was all the acknowledgement he gave of her presence.
“I had intended to rescue you from that conversation,” she told Harry. “But I see you didn’t need it.”
“I do seem to be very good at annoying him,” Harry said with a slight smile. “But I appreciate the concern.”
By unspoken agreement, Minerva and Harry began to slowly walk around the lake together. She examined him out of the corner of her eye; his face was pale, making the slight red rimming his eyes all the more noticeable.
She had known, of course, that he and Albus had always been more than just headmaster and student, and that Harry had witnessed Albus’s death. But in the immediate chaos and grief of that night, she hadn’t really thought about what that meant.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Harry,” she said quietly. “I know Professor Dumbledore was very important to you.”
He didn’t speak for a long moment. “It’s been hard to believe he’s really gone,” he finally said, echoing her own earlier thoughts. “Even though I saw it happen. He just… seemed like he’d always be here, you know?”
“I do,” Minerva concurred. Memories of him, spanning across decades, rose in her mind, filling her with a sharp mixture of nostalgia and sorrow.
“Right, of course you do,” Harry replied, sounding apologetic. “You knew him for longer than I did. Longer than I’ve even been alive.”
His words sparked a specific memory in her this time, of Albus holding a baby Harry on a darkened suburban street, herself and Hagrid next to him.
“I imagine Hagrid has told you that he was the one who delivered you to the Dursleys, after your parents…” she said, trailing off.
Harry nodded. “My first motorcycle ride,” he said fondly.
“I don’t know if he ever mentioned it, but Professor Dumbledore and myself were also there that night.” She glanced at Harry, suddenly unsure of whether this was a good topic to discuss; it was the death of his parents, and the beginning of his strained relationship with the Dursleys. But he was looking at her hungrily, and she realized that he probably knew almost nothing about his early life. After all, who would’ve told him?
“I had spent the whole day watching your relatives,” she told him slowly as they turned around and began retracing their steps. “Your cousin threw quite a tantrum, I recall.”
“Sounds like Dudley,” Harry said, amused.
“Professor Dumbledore arrived after it was dark, and told me what had happened as we waited for Hagrid. When he arrived, I thought the motorbike would wake the whole neighborhood, it was so loud. But you had fallen asleep on it, somehow – when you passed over Bristol, Hagrid said,” she added, remembering suddenly. It was a pointless detail, but Harry was still watching her intently, like he was committing every word to memory.
“It was Professor Dumbledore who actually laid you on the doorstep,” she said. “I’m not sure Hagrid could’ve brought himself to do it, he was so upset about leaving you there. Not that it was a happy night for any of us,” she said with a sigh.
They kept walking, while Minerva composed her thoughts.
“I know it’s tedious to hear exclamations about how you’ve grown from people older than you,” she finally said, and Harry looked at her curiously. “But you should know that Professor Dumbledore was very proud of the man you’ve become.”
And so am I, she almost added, but Harry’s eyes were already looking suspiciously shiny, and she didn’t wish to embarrass him. Deciding discretion was the better part of valour, she stayed quiet, and carefully didn’t look as Harry lifted a hand to his face.
They walked in a comfortable silence until they returned to where the funeral attendees were still lingering; she saw Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger coming towards them, undoubtedly to check on Harry. She turned to face him.
“I don’t know what will happen now,” she admitted. “But you will always be given help here, as long as I have any say in the matter. I hope you’ll remember that, Potter.”
“I will,” he said seriously. “Thanks, Professor.”
Ron and Hermione had reached them. “Good luck, all of you,” she said, and left them by the edge of the lake.