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“Albus. Percival. Wulfric. Brian. Dumbledore.” The door to Professor Dumbledore’s study had flown open with such a force that he was surprised it was still attached to the hinges. Through the now conveniently open doorway strode none other than one Professor Minerva McGonagall.
Now, Minerva storming into Albus’ office was nothing new, in fact it was practically part of their daily routine as the long-suffering deputy headmistress dealt with the headmaster’s antics. Albus normally would not flinch and instead would wait with a quiet smile to see what fool thing he had done now.
But this time, as Minerva strode up to his desk, he frowned and laid down his quill. The woman in front of him was far from her normal calm self, a composure she usually retained even while reprimanding him. First, she had not shouted his name as she entered the room. Instead, she had almost choked out the words, as if each one caught in her throat and could barely make it out before she was overcome. Her face was red, her eyes behind her small round spectacles redder still and puffy, as though she had been crying and her hands, even as she held her wand, were trembling slightly. Her chest heaved as she stood before him.
Albus stood from his chair and hurried around his desk, reaching for his Transfiguration professor’s hands. She backed away from him.
“Minerva, my dear professor, what is the matter?” he asked, eyebrows knitted together in concern.
“That woman has gone too far.” Minerva’s voice was quiet, restrained. “Albus, you must remove her from this school.”
Albus sighed. Umbridge again.
“Minerva,” he began in a placating tone, but she held up a hand to stop him. She strode over to the glass case where the Pensieve was held, pulling it out and ushering it over to the desk. She then raised her wand to her temple, pulling away a silver strand of memory and letting it fall slowly into the silvery liquid. She tapped the rim once and the image projected itself over the basin. Albus watched in silence.
The face of Hermione Granger appeared before them looking extremely guilty, and when she began to speak, her voice reverberated around the small chamber.
“Professor, Harry really didn’t want me to tell you this. He made me swear. But I just . . . couldn’t. I couldn’t. I had to tell you. Umbridge, when she takes Harry for detention, she’s . . she’s torturing him.” Hermione’s face twisted quickly away as a new image appeared. This was from Minerva’s perspective as she paced up and down the rows of desks in the Transfiguration room. The students were writing an exam. Minerva walked slowly past where Harry was sitting with Ron. As she passed, she glanced down at the back of Harry’s right hand as he wrote with his quill.
In Dumbledore’s office, Minerva felt her heart skip a beat as the scars on the back of Harry’s hand came into focus, just as it had done the first time she had seen them in the classroom.
I must not tell lies.
She closed her eyes tightly as the memory faded away and opened them again to find Albus Dumbledore staring forlornly at the ground.
“Minerva,” he began once more, closing his eyes slowly .
“Stop this, Albus.” Minerva cut him off with a whisper, her eyes shining. “He’s been through so much. And now this?”
“Minerva,” Albus said again, his voice stronger now as he brought the Pensieve back to its home. “I don’t need to tell you the intricacies of the moment we are living in, nor of Umbridge’s position within it. I cannot move against her now -”
“Albus Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard in the world -”
“Minerva, please do not use that against me now. You know there are plans in place that cannot be tampered with. I cannot act yet.” Albus walked slowly to his desk and sat, avoiding Minerva’s gaze as he said his next words.
“For now, Harry will just have to endure it, and bear the scars.”
He felt Minerva slowly lift her head and stare at him as he fiddled with a piece of loose parchment.
She took three slow steps forward.
“How dare you, Albus.” Her voice was sharp as a knife. “This boy is already scarred. How many more scars are coming for him in the future? How many scars can we expect him to endure?”
The tears that had materialized before threatened to spill over onto her face, but Minerva McGonagall’s voice did not shake.
“Harry Potter is a child under my care. If I can protect him from even one single scar out of hundreds, it is my duty to do so.” The tears had now broken free and were rolling slowly down her face. ‘I will protect him with all I have,” she finished quietly.
“You cannot,” Albus replied softly. He finally looked up at her, eyes almost as heartbroken as she felt. “You know you cannot, Minerva.”
Minerva closed her eyes once more and saw a baby boy with dark hair, wrapped in blankets, surrounded by a dark night, a newly wrought lightning shaped scar on his forehead. She took a breath, opened her eyes, and marched for the stairs.
“I can try.”