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There was a certain methodical patience by which Minerva McGonagall cleaned her duplicating chalkboards. She preferred doing it by hand, lingering in the aftermath of a lesson, the shuffling of parchment and the squeak of shoes a beat for the chorus of voices that erupted when she dismissed class. It was a Thursday, the late October air already bringing the scent of snow and ice, the Scottish sky bright with storm clouds.
The afternoon sun was pouring through the crystal window and scattering across the limestone floor of her classroom. She often lingered longer on Thursdays, before returning to her office, in case any students from the fifth year class she had just dismissed wanted to talk about their upcoming assessments, or their future career options, or even generalized worries, new anxieties always plaguing those on the cusp of being what the rest of the Wizarding World for foolishly call adults. They were children. Even outside these walls. Especially outside these walls.
It was there that she paused, the last child scampering from her classroom, bag smacking the doorframe on the way out with a dull thud – and she saw it.
A boy with windswept black hair.
“And Potter turns on his broom – Oh! He’s lost him, Potter’s lost him – And there it is! Gryffindor 190, Slytherin 120! Another goal by Potter! That boy is unstoppable tonight!”
The boy kicked off the ground, balancing on his broom, leaning forward, fingers flexing around the wood. Minerva watched, transfixed. The boy was saying something, rising higher and higher in the air, one hand locker firmly on the broom, robes rippling in the wind.
“If Slytherin catch the snitch now, they will win the game and the cup. The same goes for Gryffindor but no one has seen the snitch since the first few minutes of the match – and Gryffindor’s Chasers have it again!”
The boy shot out, broom jumping forward, and the boy leaning with it, going into a dive, hand outstretched, wire framed round glasses glinting in the sunlight.
“And they’ve done it! Gryffindor have taken the game! The Cup! The Cup! It’s been seven years – “
And Minerva was snapped from her thoughts by the group surging forward, cheers of victory in the air. The boy held up his arm triumphantly, fist clenched tight around a small sphere. She was turned, striding out of her classroom and down the stone hallways of the castle before she could form another thought.
“Didn’t I tell you we would win it, Minnie,” the boy grinned. His robes were disheveled, hair a messy, glasses askew. His Head Boy pin was crooked, pulling at his collar like he hadn’t taken it off before shedding his clothes prior to the game. He looked like he had hurried from the Quidditch pitch straight to her office, somehow beating her there despite Minerva taking the most direct route. He hadn’t showered, and he was absent from the current celebration procession, where the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team were being carried up the common rooms like heroes raised in battle.
“Mr. Potter,” she admonished on instinct, face pulling flat into a frown. It was pointless. The boy’s grin only grew.
The cold winter air hit Minerva first as she stalked toward the group of first years. One of the girls, bushy brown hair and nervous eyes spotted her first, widening in horror.
“Harry Potter!” she yelled, as if to just remind herself. Remind herself that it was green eyes that would turn to her in dread.
“I have something for you,” Potter said, stepping aside so she could breeze past him, putting her coat up on the hook. He waited until she was seated at her desk, rocking on his toes, hands clasp behind his back, biting back a grin. She sighed.
“I expect the Quidditch Cup will be delivered by Dumbledore,” she said, assuming this was what he meant. It would have been nice to take it straight from Horace’s greasy hands, but she would have to settle for this.
The boy waved her off.
“That wasn’t what I meant,” he said. Minerva peered down at him over her square frame glasses.
“And what, pray tell, did you mean?” she asked, voice hard, suspicious. There were few students in her time as a teacher who had seen the inside of her office, not to mention the Headmaster’s, as Mr. Potter had. He sauntered over to her desk now, completely at ease.
The boy spun his hand in a flourish, like a muggle magician revealing a trick, fist forward, before spinning it over, palm up, and revealing what was inside. A small golden ball, wings fluttering
“Never – in all my time at Hogwarts – “ Minerva couldn’t seem to force her words in line with her thoughts.
“How did you get this?” she asked suspiciously.
“It came into my possession entirely innocently!” he swore, hand across his heart. Minerva was well-versed in his ability to lie with the truth.
“You are not a Seeker, Mr. Potter,” she said, mouth stern. The boy smiled.
“But you were, weren’t you?” And she had to fight to keep the surprise off her face. His grin crooked.
“And just where did you get that impression?” she asked.
“Bribed Poppy,” he said. “Remus figured it out. It’s not the chocolate she hates but the frogs,” he shared eagerly, leaning forward like they were two conspirators, sharing a secret. “Got a whole bin of Toblerone stored in our footlocker.”
Minerva’s eyes locked in on the ball in Potter – Harry’s hand. “ – how dare you – might have broken your neck – “
“The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are – are – that they’re dead.”
Potter – Harry cowed in front of her immediately, eyes flickering downward, shoulders hunching like he expected to get hurt. Minerva went cold, winter air seeping into her bones.
“It wasn’t his fault, Professor – “
“Be quiet, Miss Patil,” Minerva said automatically, studying the boy in front of her. His hair stuck up every which way and his brown skin pulled tight over his small features. He was skinny, lanky, with arms and legs that had grown on without him, while his face still clung desperately to youth. His knobby knees pinched inward and the boy looked like he was actively trying to fold himself smaller.
“But Malfoy – “
“That’s enough, Mr. Weasley,” said Minerva, making up her mind in that moment. “Potter, follow me, now.”
She spun around knowing, that like his father, the boy would fall in line behind her footsteps without her having to glance back. She led the pair of them back into the castle, the boy quiet behind her. He didn’t make a sound and when she glanced over, his lips were pressed so tightly together they seemed welded shut.
“Mr. Potter, I explicitly said don’t bother Miss Evans while she finishes her assignment.”
“Ohhh, I thought you said go bother …” James trailed off with an embarrassed hum. He shot a look back at the fiery redhead. “That does make more sense. Sorry, love.”
Their twin echo of feet was the only noise echoing on the limestone floors as Minerva led Harry farther into the castle. The quiet of a ghost between them.
“Matchsticks into needles Potter!”
“Needles? Oh, Professor, I thought for sure you said beetles. I am so sorry. Don’t worry, though, Professor, it honestly could have happened to anyone. Sirius was certain you said sneedles, and I would like to point out that I was at least closer - ”
“What on earth are sneedles, Mr. Potter?” Minerva's tone had a dangerous edge to it, like she was daring him to answer the question.
“Well, see, that’s why we ruled out sneedles as the assignment ma’am. Sirius reckoned they were a type of female knickers, but I thought that was too gender specific and I know you would never disadvantage half the class like that – “
“Mr. Potter!” Minerva cut off abruptly. An innocent smile flashed across the boy’s face. “Ten points from Gryffindor,” she managed.
The boy saluted her. “I respect that,” he said.
Minerva pinched the bridge of her nose. It was the third day of class. “Stick to the assignment in the future Mr. Potter.”
A blazing grin. “Of course, Professor. I will stay very on task in the future.”
Minerva spared one last look at the large insect crawling across the boy’s desk. “And five points for impressive Transfiguration,” she said stiffly before turning away. She could feel the boy’s mouth gape open as she left, and she had to repress a smile.
Beetles.
Minerva stopped abruptly outside the door she had been looking for, swinging open the door and peering inside the Charms classroom. On cue, a synchronized sea of heads swiveled her way.
“Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?” she asked, voice even. The boy in question, Oliver Wood, stood abruptly chair screeching back. When Minerva turned back to look down at the boy beside her, his face was paler than it’d been a moment before.
“Mr. Potter, you are Head Boy, now. I cannot keep finding you sneaking through the castle past curfew!”
“Professor, I am doing my duty as Head Boy,” James began earnestly. “Do you know how irresponsible it would be for me to simply vacate my position as head troublemaker? Think of the power vacuum. Fifth years, third years, first years, all scrambling to the top. It would be absolute chaos,” he smacked the back of his hand into his palm and shook his head. “I can’t let that happen, ma’am.”
“Follow me, you two,” she said briskly, fighting a smile building on her lips. Something was stirring in her chest, like stretching a sore muscle. She made her way back though the corridor and into an empty classroom, shooing away Peeves. She spun back on the pair.
“Potter, this is Oliver Wood. Wood – I’ve found you a Seeker.”
“Mr. Potter, I’m sure you’re aware there are very serious things happening in the world right now that take precedence over Quidditch.”
The boy looked at her very seriously.
“I’m sorry, Professor. But there’s nothing in the world more important than Quidditch.”
“Are you serious, Professor?” Wood’s face was alight with joy, turning to Harry with unadulterated excitement. And what a strange word that was, unadulterated. Un-adult, as in to be a child.
“Absolutely,” she said, and she watched as Harry’s face fell from fear into confusion. “The boy is a natural. I’ve never seen anything like it. Was that your first time on a broomstick, Potter?”
Harry nodded numbly. Minerva continued, glancing at Wood.
“He caught that thing in his hand after a fifty-foot dive. Didn’t even scratch himself,” and she could hear now, the pride that was seeping into her tone. “Charlie Weasley couldn’t have done it.”
“Mr. Potter, would you please take this meeting seriously,” she sighed, glasses slipping down her nose.
“Oh, I am very serious Professor. I don’t need any NEWTs because after school, I’m going to be a Professional Quidditch player.”
Minerva sighed. “That is all well and good, Mr. Potter, but realistically – “
“I know,” he cut in seriously. “Only five percent of players ever turn pro, and of those, only one percent turn it into a career. But that’s going to be me, professor. I’m that one.”
The burly fifth year turned to the younger boy. “Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Potter?” he asked.
“Wood’s the captain of the Gryffindor team,” she explained to Harry gently, watching the last of the tension and fear fall from his shoulders.
Wood continues to ramble, and Minerva promised to speak to Professor Dumbledore. She glanced down at the boy, raising an eyebrow sternly.
“I want to hear you’re training hard, Potter, or I may change my mind about punishing you.”
“I expect to hear great things of you, Mr. Potter.”
“Don’t you always?”
She peered down sternly at the boy. Then she softened. “And a very happy graduation.”
Minerva smiled.
“Your father would have been proud,” she said. The boy in front of her’s eyes flashed wide. “He was an excellent Quidditch player himself.”