Work Text:
“Wait. Pardon?”
Minerva McGonagall prided herself on many things, not least of which was her composure. In decades of teaching, she could count on one hand the occasions on which students had managed to render her entirely speechless. This, she suspected grimly, was about to join that list.
Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger stood before her, shifting from foot to foot, cheeks flushed, eyes resolutely fixed on a spot somewhere near her left elbow. They looked the picture of guilt, but there was a sincerity to their misery that set her teeth on edge. They were not lying. Merlin help them, they were not lying at all.
She drew in a measured breath and let it out through her nose.
“So,” she said at last, peering over the rims of her spectacles with deliberate severity, “what you are telling me is that while revising for your forthcoming Transfiguration examination, you have somehow succeeded in turning Mister Potter into a child.”
“Yes, Professor McGonagall,” Ron blurted, far too quickly. “He’s all right, honestly. He’s in the Gryffindor common room at the moment. If you’d like to see him, we can show you, we just-”
“We are extremely sorry, Professor,” Hermione cut in, her voice trembling. “It will not happen again.”
Minerva pressed her lips together, drawing them into a thin, uncompromising line. It did very little to convey the depth of her exasperation, though it made a respectable attempt.
“It better not,” she said curtly.
For a few measured breaths, Minerva took the liberty of eyeing down her students.
“I should like to see him,” she said at last. Her voice had cooled into the calm, dangerous politeness that usually preceded detentions of an imaginative sort. “Both of you will accompany me, and if this is a joke, I assure you that you will regret it for the remainder of your academic careers.”
“It’s not a joke, Professor,” Ron murmured, looking as though he might be sick.
They set off, Minerva’s tartan robes snapping about her ankles as she strode through the corridors. A few days before exams was quite bad enough without students attempting experimental transfiguration on one another. On Potter, no less. She told herself firmly that it would be temporary, that she would march into the common room to find an awkward but otherwise unharmed child with James Potter’s hair and Lily Potter’s eyes, and that she would fix it within the hour.
She did not expect the silence.
The Gryffindor common room was rarely quiet, particularly so close to Christmas, when revision notes were usually abandoned in favour of Exploding Snap and dubious carols. Yet when the portrait swung open, the room fell into an uneasy hush.
Minerva’s sharp eyes found him at once.
He was sitting on the rug in front of the fire, knees pulled up to his chest, far too small for the oversized jumper that drowned him. It was unmistakably Harry, even shrunken down to perhaps six or seven years old. The same unruly hair stuck up at all angles, the same too thin wrists. His glasses were gone, lying abandoned beside him, and he was squinting at the flames with an expression that made Minerva’s chest tighten painfully.
He flinched when she stepped inside.
It was a small thing, almost nothing, but it was instinctive and immediate. Harry curled in on himself, arms lifting as though to shield his head. Several students nearby looked stricken.
Minerva stopped dead.
“Potter,” she said gently, far more gently than she had intended. “Harry.”
He looked up at her voice, green eyes wide and frightened. There was no recognition in them. No warmth. Only the wary, resigned fear of a child who expected to be shouted at.
“S-sorry,” he whispered automatically, and reached for his glasses.
Minerva closed her eyes for a fraction of a second.
She had known, of course, that his childhood had not been happy. Albus had been vague, as he so often was, and Minerva had accepted it at the time. Looking at the small boy before her, thin and tense and bracing for a blow that would never come, she felt a cold fury settle in her bones.
“I am Professor McGonagall,” she said, kneeling carefully in front of him so she did not tower over his small frame. “You are safe. No one here will hurt you.”
Harry’s eyes flicked past her, scanning the room as though searching for exits. “Y-yes, I’ll be good,” he said quickly. “I promise. I can clean, I can cook...I won’t make a mess.”
Several Gryffindors made small, distressed sounds. One girl near the stairs wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
Minerva reached out, then hesitated, and instead placed her hand flat on the rug between them, a deliberate show of non aggression. “You do not need to do anything,” she said. “You are a child. It is nearly Christmas, and you are at school.”
“School?” Harry echoed. His brow furrowed. “I’m not supposed to be at school. Aunt Petunia said…” He trailed off, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood.
Minerva’s voice did not waver, though it took effort. “Your aunt is not here,” she said. “I am. And so are a great many people who care about you.”
Harry did not look convinced, but he did look slightly less afraid.
Behind her, one of the offending students sniffed. “Professor, we honestly didn’t know. He just started crying when we tried to explain where he was, and then…”
Minerva rose slowly to her feet. “That will be enough,” she said quietly. “Miss Granger, fetch Poppy Pomfrey at once. Mister Weasley, I want you to alert Professor Dumbledore. I expect you both outside the Hospital Wing as soon as you've finished doing what I asked of you. The rest of you are to give Mister Potter space and behave yourselves for once in your lives.”
She looked back down at Harry, who had shrunken even further into his jumper, eyes fixed anxiously on her face.
“Harry,” she said, offering him her hand at last. “Would you like to come with me? We shall find you something warm to drink.”
He stared at her hand as though it might bite him. After a long moment, he reached out with trembling fingers and took it.
His hand was icy cold.
Minerva closed her fingers around his with careful firmness, and made a silent vow to protet this child for as long as she breathed.
She guided him away from the fire with unhurried care, mindful of how stiffly he moved, as though any sudden motion might cause pain, undoubtedly from bruises. He followed her without protest, clutching her hand in both of his, his grip surprisingly strong for someone so small. She noted, not without concern, how light he felt.
The common room parted around them in respectful silence. Students drew back instinctively, giving Harry space, eyes following him with a mixture of guilt, worry and something very like protectiveness. Ron ran to the Dumbledore's office, heading out after Hermione, who had finally moved to go get Madam Pomfrey.
They moved through the portrait hole and into the corridor beyond. The castle seemed to sense the change in atmosphere, its usual warmth subdued, the torches burning a little lower. Harry glanced around as they walked, gaze darting from suit of armour to shadowed alcove, clearly expecting something dreadful to leap out at him.
“This is a big place,” he said in a small voice.
“It is,” Minerva agreed. “But you will not be lost in it, I promise you that.”
He nodded, apparently accepting her words, and pressed closer to her side.
Madam Pomfrey met them halfway down the corridor, summoned by a breathless Hermione who skidded to a halt beside her, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. One look at Harry was enough to wipe the professional irritation from Poppy’s face, replacing it with sharp concern.
“Oh my,” she murmured. “That is not good. Not good at all.”
Harry shrank back immediately, ducking his head and tightening his grip on Minerva’s hand.
“She’s a healer,” Minerva said calmly, squeezing his fingers once. “She fixes people when they are hurt.”
“I’m not hurt,” Harry said quickly. “I can still walk. I'm not in pain.”
Poppy’s mouth tightened. “We’ll see about that,” she said gently. “Come along, dear. The hospital wing is far warmer than these draughty corridors.”
Harry looked up at Minerva, uncertainty plain on his face. “Do I have to?”
“No,” Minerva replied without hesitation. “But it would be sensible, and I shall be with you the entire time.”
That seemed to decide him. He nodded once and allowed Poppy to shepherd him forward, though he did not release Minerva’s hand until they reached the Hospital Wing and she assured him again that she was not going anywhere.
Poppy settled him onto one of the beds, conjuring blankets that Harry immediately burrowed beneath, curling in on himself like a hedgehog. She cast a series of diagnostic charms, her frown deepening with each one.
“He’s malnourished,” she said quietly, glancing at Minerva. “And exhausted. This did not begin today.”
“No,” Minerva said. “I suspected as much.”
Harry watched them with growing anxiety. “Am I in trouble?”
“No,” Minerva said firmly, moving to sit beside the bed. “You are not in trouble. None of this is your fault.”
He considered that for a long moment, then asked, “Will I have to go back?”
Minerva felt her chest constrict. “Back where?”
Harry hesitated. “Home.”
Minerva chose her words with care. “You will not be returning anywhere today,” she said. “Today, you are staying right here.”
That seemed to soothe him. His eyelids drooped, lashes dark against pale skin, and within minutes he had drifted into an uneasy sleep, one hand still fisted in the edge of Minerva’s sleeve.
-
Minerva did not leave Harry until Madam Pomfrey shooed her firmly from the bedside and drew the curtains around his bed. Even then, she paused just outside the hospital wing, fingers curled tightly around her wand, taking a moment to school her expression into something approaching neutrality. It would not do to interrogate two frightened children while visibly incandescent, however justified her fury might be.
Ron and Hermione were waiting exactly where she had instructed. Ron looked as though he might bolt, while Hermione stood very straight, chin lifted with the sort of determination that usually preceded a confession of spectacular thoroughness.
“Come with me,” Minerva said. “Both of you.”
She led them into her office and gestured for them to sit. They did so without protest, making Minerva the only one to remain standing.
“You will tell me precisely what spell you were attempting,” she said. “And you will not embellish, omit, or attempt to spare any details.”
Hermione swallowed. “We were revising the Age Line theory,” she began. “The theoretical application of reversal matrices in human transfiguration. It was meant to be a demonstration only. We were not intending to cast it on anyone.”
Ron nodded vigorously. “Harry just walked in. We wanted to show him what we had just found, and Hermione said the incantation out loud while I moved my wand at the same time and it just sort of happened.”
Minerva narrowed her eyes. “You performed a joint casting.”
“Yes, Professor,” Hermione said miserably. “I did not realize Ron had his wand raised. The theory suggested the spell would collapse without a focus.”
“And Mister Potter,” Minerva said quietly, “was that focus.”
Hermione’s eyes filled with unshed tears. “Yes.”
Minerva exhaled slowly. “You understand,” she said, “that the spell you are describing is well beyond your level.”
Hermione nodded. “I know. That is why I do not understand how it worked."
Minerva did understand. She did not say so aloud. Powerful magic, fuelled by emotion, had a way of latching onto vulnerable targets. And Merlin knew Harry Potter was nothing if not vulnerable.
“Detention will be forthcoming,” she said at last. “But that is not the matter at hand. You will remain available should Madam Pomfrey or I require further clarification. You are dismissed for now.”
They left in silence.
Minerva went directly to the Headmaster’s office.
Albus was already standing when she entered, expression grave beneath his half moon spectacles. Fawkes trilled softly from his perch.
“I assume this concerns Harry,” he said.
“It does,” Minerva replied. “I assume mister Weasley has put you to current with the situation."
Albus adjusted his spectacles. "Yes, that he did. Impressive, the amount of power young wizards have."
"Yes, though you know that is not what I came here to talk about."
Albus closed his eyes briefly. “I suppose not.”
"As you know, mister Potter has been turned into a child approximating in six years of age,” Minerva said. "This oc urence has allowed me to notice how frightened of adults he is. He flinches at sudden movement, he apologises for existin, and he moves like every step causes him pain.”
Albus looked up sharply.
“Bruising,” Minerva continued, her voice tight. “Old and new. Concealed beneath his sleeves, or beneath his hair. He has been deliberately keeping his fringe over one eye. I saw enough when he shifted in his sleep.”
The silence stretched.
“At the Dursleys,” Albus said quietly.
“Yes,” Minerva replied. “And far worse than we allowed ourselves to believe.”
Albus sank into his chair. For once, he looked every one of his years.
“I will make arrangements,” he said at length. “He will not return there. Not ever again.”
“Good,” Minerva said. “In the meantime, he requires care. Madam Pomfrey is attending to his physical state, but that will not be enough.”
Albus nodded. “Would you be willing to oversee him, Minerva. At least for the duration of the transformation.”
She did not hesitate. “Of course.”
Albus smiled faintly, though his eyes were troubled. “Then we shall proceed accordingly. Thank you, my dear friend.”
Minerva inclined her head and turned back towards the Hospital Wing.
Harry slept on, breathing softly, unaware of the quiet storm gathering around him. And Minerva McGonagall, walking briskly through the torchlit corridors, allowed herself one final thought.
Many people hurt this child over and over, but Hogwarts will not let it happen again.
-
Harry woke slowly, the way he usually did when he was trying to stay in a good dream for as long as possible.
The first thing he became aware of was warmth. It was a different kind from the suffocating hotness in his cupboard under the stairs. There was a soft mattress beneath him and something clean and faintly sharp smelling, like soap, under his nose.
He opened his eyes a crack.
The room was big. Too big. White curtains hung around the bed, glowing faintly, and the ceiling was high enough that he could not see where it ended. For one awful moment his heart began to hammer, because big rooms meant trouble, meant people watching, meant expectations.
Then he noticed the woman sitting beside him.
She was the same one from earlier, the one with the square glasses and the voice that did not shout. She sat very still, hands folded in her lap, as though she had been there a long time and was quite prepared to stay longer. When she noticed his eyes open, she didn't jump or bark or demand to know what he thought he was doing.
“Good afternoon, Harry,” she said quietly.
“H-hello, madam."
Her mouth twitched, just a bit, like she was trying to hold back a frown. “You need not call me that,” she said. “Professor McGonagall will do.”
He nodded and pulled his blanket up a little higher, just in case.
Another woman bustled in then, brisk and smelling strongly of something sharp and clean. She peered at him with bright eyes and made a small approving noise.
“Awake at last,” she said. “Good. No fever. Magic’s stable. You may go, Professor, but I want him back this evening. Proper check up, the usual ordeal.”
“Of course,” Professor McGonagall said.
The other woman bent down. “If anything hurts, you tell me later, all right?”
Harry nodded again. Telling was dangerous, but nodding was safe.
When they were alone again, Professor McGonagall stood and held out her hand. She did not rush him.
“Would you care to come with me, Harry,” she asked, “and have something to eat. The kitchens are not far, and I haven't yet given you the warm drink I promised.”
Food.
The word landed in his chest like a spark. He tried not to react. Getting excited about food was a mistake. It made Aunt Petunia cross, and Dudley throw a tantrum.
But he could not stop his eyes from lighting up anyway.
“Yes, please,” he said, before he could think better of it.
She noticed, he was sure she did, but she did not say anything. She simply took his hand and helped him down from the bed. His feet barely touched the floor.
They walked through the castle together, and Harry did his best not to stare, but it was difficult. Everything was enormous and moving and alive, with walls full of pictures that looked back at him and a ceiling that stretched up forever. The floor was warm under his socks.
He did not ask where they were going. He did not ask why the stairs moved. Neither did he ask how the suits of armour could turn their heads to watch him pass. Questions were risky, and they made people angry.
They reached a long corridor and Professor McGonagall stopped in front of a painting of a bowl of fruit.
“Watch,” she said.
She tickled the pear, and Harry stared in awe and astonishment as the painting swung open.
He gasped before he could stop himself.
Beyond it was another world. A huge room, low ceilinged and warm, full of tables and copper pots and more food than he had ever seen in one place. Little people darted about, carrying plates and bowls, and when they saw him they paused.
Then they smiled.
“Oh, bless,” one of them said. “He’s tiny.”
Harry clutched Professor McGonagall’s hand, eyes wide, taking it all in. The smells alone made his head spin. Bread, stew, pudding. More than one kitchen, too, branching off in every direction. Multiple kitchens. Endless kitchens.
Professor McGonagall knelt beside him. “You may have as much as you like,” she said gently. “No one will tell you off.”
Harry swallowed.
He still did not quite trust her, since she was an adult, but for the first time in a very long while, he thought he might want to try.
He went and sat himself on the edge of a long wooden table with his feet dangling, trying very hard not to look greedy.
A little plate had appeared in front of him, piled with food. Real food. Proper food. There was bread that still steamed when he pulled it apart, butter that melted at the touch, and a small bowl of something thick and brown that smelled so good it made his stomach ache. Someone had put a mug beside it as well, filled nearly to the brim with something hot and sweet.
He did not touch it at first.
The tiny people bustled around him, smaller than he was but moving with purpose, passing dishes back and forth and glancing at him with soft eyes. One of them paused and placed a roll on his plate, then patted his sleeve gently and hurried away again. Another gave him a spoon and nodded, as if that was all that needed saying.
They did not ask him questions, or tell him to hurry up. They also did not watch him too closely.
Harry decided he liked them.
He broke off a small piece of bread and held it for a moment, glancing up at Professor McGonagall. She stood a little way off, pretending not to watch, though he could tell she was. When their eyes met, she did not frown. She smiled, just slightly, and inclined her head.
He took a bite, and nothing bad happened.
He chewed carefully, waiting for a shout, a sharp hand at the back of his head, or an order to spit it out, but none of that came. The bread tasted wonderful. He swallowed, and felt it settle warmly in his stomach.
Another glance. Another small, encouraging look.
He tried a spoonful of the brown stew next. Then another. He kept the bites small, counting them in his head, just in case. Too much food had consequences. He knew that.
One of the tiny people, a woman with a tea towel over her shoulder, noticed how slowly he was eating and quietly slid a napkin closer to him. She did not say anything. She just smiled and went back to her work.
Talking was not safe. Harry had learnt that early. It got you noticed, and that got you in trouble. The little people seemed to understand that, because they did not chatter at him or demand answers. They hummed softly as they worked, the sound blending into the crackle of fires and the clatter of pots.
This place felt big. Not just tall or wide, but big in a way that made his head spin. Everything gleamed and moved, and there was a hum in the air that made his skin tingle. Magical, he thought dimly, and then shook the thought away.
Magic was not real.
That meant this could not be real either.
He must be dreaming.
That made sense, actually. He had never had a dream like this before, but then he had never slept in a bed like that either. In dreams, things were always kinder. Food appeared, people smiled at him, no one told him off for breathing too loudly.
He glanced at Professor McGonagall again. She was speaking quietly to one of the tiny people, her voice low and calm. When she noticed him looking, she raised her eyebrows, a question without words.
Harry nodded to show he was all right.
If this was a dream, it was a nice one. The sort you wanted to stay in as long as you could, even if you knew it would not last. He took another careful bite of bread, committing the taste to memory.
Just in case he woke up hungry.
Harry waited for the dream to end.
Usually that was how it went. The good bits never lasted. You woke up in the dark, your stomach empty, your head sore, and the nice things faded like they had never been there at all. So when he finished eating, wiping his mouth carefully because the small lady had handed him a cloth, he braced himself.
Nothing happened.
The floor stayed solid beneath his feet. The warmth stayed. The smells didn't start to fade, if anything, they got stronger. Professor McGonagall thanked the tiny people, who waved at Harry and went back to their work, and then she took his hand again.
Still dreaming, then, he decided. Just a very long one.
They walked.
The castle seemed even bigger now, like it had decided to show off. Professor McGonagall talked as they went, her voice steady and low, telling him things about the place as though it was the most natural thing in the world. She told him about rooms that liked to move when you were not looking, staircases that had thrown people down them for being cheeky, and portraits that would gossip about you if you wore the same jumper too often. Some stories were funny, some a bit frightening, and some so dull he lost track halfway through, but he liked listening all the same.
No one had ever told him stories just for him before.
When he stopped to stare at something, she stopped too. When his eyes lingered on a suit of armour with a dented helmet, she told him about the student who had dropped it down three flights of stairs. When he looked up at a ceiling painted with stars, she explained how it changed with the weather. He did not ask how, or why. He just listened.
If he was dreaming, he did not want to spoil it by talking too much.
Eventually, they came back to the place where he had first seen her, with the red curtains and the fireplace. There was noise coming from inside, and for a moment his chest tightened, expecting her to leave him behind.
She did not.
“Harry,” she said, crouching slightly so she was closer to his height, “you are going to see your friends now.”
He blinked. “My friends?”
“Yes,” she said. “They have been quite worried about you.”
The word felt strange in his mouth, even unspoken. Friends were something other people had. Dudley had friends. Harry only had chores.
His heart began to beat faster, but not in a bad way.
“Oh,” he said softly.
Professor McGonagall smiled at him again, the same small, steady smile. “Come along.”
As they walked towards the portrait with a beautiful lady on it, Harry’s excitement bubbled up, bright and unexpected. If this was still a dream, then it was getting better by the minute.
Friends.
He tightened his grip on her hand and followed, already hoping, just a little, that this time he would not wake up at all.
They went through the round doorway and into a room that made Harry stop short without meaning to.
It was enormous, but not in the cold, echoing way big places usually were. This one felt lived in. Squashy armchairs were scattered about, some with patches sewn into the arms. A fire burned cheerfully in the wide hearth he recognized, and the walls were hung with banners and moving pictures. Everything glowed with a soft, golden light, and the air smelled faintly of smoke and something sweet.
It was cosy. Properly so.
Harry realized, with a small jolt, that he had been too frightened the first time he'd been here to notice much beyond the floor and the exits. Now, he saw the details. The way the furniture didn’t quite match. The way people lounged wherever they liked, shoes kicked off, laughing quietly. It looked like somewhere you were meant to belong.
Before he could take another step, two people broke away from the crowd and hurried towards him.
“Harry,” the tall red haired boy said, sounding breathless. “Are you all right? We were worried sick.”
Hermione was right beside him, eyes shining. “Madam Pomfrey said you were resting. Does anything hurt? Are you feeling dizzy?”
The questions came fast, overlapping, and Harry stiffened on instinct. Attention was dangerous. Attention meant expectations.
“I’m okay,” he said quickly. “I think.”
Ron grinned, relief plain on his face. “Brilliant. D’you want to play something? We were thinking chess.”
Harry glanced back at the nice lady. She was sitting in one of the armchairs near the fire, talking quietly with a few older students, but she looked over at him just then and gave him an encouraging nod.
“They’re your friends,” she said.
“All right,” Harry whispered back, though his voice wobbled a bit. Then, looking at his friends, he smiled. “I can try.”
They took him over to a table near the window, where a chessboard sat waiting. Only it was not like any chess set Harry had ever seen. The pieces were taller than his hand and carved to look like tiny soldiers, horses and towers. As soon as Ron reached out to move one, it stamped its foot and glared.
Harry stared.
“This is wizard chess,” Ron said proudly. “You have to tell them where to go. They’re a bit bossy.”
They showed him how it worked, how to say the moves out loud, how to ignore the pieces when they complained about it. Harry watched carefully, absorbing everything. It was strange, but in a good way. The pieces argued with one another, clanked across the board, and occasionally sulked if they were taken.
Eventually, curiosity got the better of him.
“Why do they move by themselves,” he asked before he could stop himself. “And why is it called wizard chess if it’s just chess? How do you win this game, if you-”
The words hit him all at once.
He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t mean to be rude. I won’t ask again.”
Ron and Hermione exchanged a look.
“It’s all right,” Hermione said at once. “Really. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Ron nodded. “Yeah, questions are fine.”
Harry lowered his hand slowly, not entirely convinced.
Hermione smiled at him, softer this time. “They move because of magic,” she said. “We’re witches and wizards. This is a school that teaches magic.”
Harry stared at her.
Magic. Real magic.
That didn’t make sense. Magic was stories and television tricks. Magic wasn’t… this. Wasn’t warm rooms and moving chess pieces and people being kind to you for no reason.
He glanced over at the nice lady again. She was still there, listening to someone speak, her expression thoughtful. She caught him looking and raised her teacup slightly, as if in a silent toast.
Why was she so nice?
Why were they all?
Harry looked back at the chessboard, at the pieces squabbling quietly, and felt something unfamiliar bloom in his chest. Hope, maybe. Or wonder.
If magic was real, then perhaps this place was too.
And perhaps, just perhaps, this kindness was not a trick after all.
-
Harry lost track of time.
Wizard chess turned into something else and then back again, pieces clattering and complaining as Ron coached him through moves and Hermione reminded them both of the rules.
Other children drifted over, curious at first, then friendly, pulling up chairs, asking if he wanted to join this or watch that. No one stared at him like he was wrong. No one told him to sit still or keep quiet.
Two older boys arrived together, identical grins already spreading across their faces.
“Blimey,” one of them said, leaning over the table. “So this is Harry.”
“The famous one,” the other added cheerfully. “Tiny but mighty.”
“I’m Fred,” said the first.
“And I’m George,” said the second. “Or maybe it’s the other way round.”
They spent the next few minutes winding Ron up mercilessly, making the chess pieces argue even more than usual, and pretending to swap places when no one was looking. Harry tried very hard not to laugh. Laughing loudly was dangerous, and it drew attention.
But then George pretended to be knocked clean off his chair by a chess knight, flailing dramatically, and Fred announced that he would write to their mum to report Ron for crimes against strategy.
Harry laughed.
It burst out of him, loud and startled, before he could stop it. The sound seemed to surprise him as much as anyone else. For a split second he froze, waiting for the sharp words, the anger, the order to shut up.
None came.
Fred beamed at him. “See, told you we were funny.”
Ron grinned like he’d won something important. Hermione smiled too, warm and pleased.
Harry’s chest felt tight again, but this time, he didn't want the feeling to go away.
He was still laughing a little when the nice lady appeared again, clapping her hands lightly.
“Off you go,” she said. “All of you. Dinner.”
They streamed out together into a vast room filled with long tables that stretched further than Harry could see. Candles floated overhead, and the ceiling looked like the night sky, stars twinkling softly. Plates were already filling with food, appearing out of nowhere.
Harry stopped dead.
There was so much of it.
Ron and Hermione crowded in on either side of him, pointing things out eagerly.
“That’s roast beef,” Ron said. “And those are Yorkshire puddings. Try one."
Hermione gestured at a bowl of something bright purple, adding some to her own plate. “That’s beetroot salad. It’s not for everyone.”
Fred leaned across the table. “Avoid the treacle tart if you don’t like sweet things.”
Harry stared, wide eyed, as plates refilled themselves when emptied. Some dishes wriggled slightly. One dessert puffed out a small cloud of steam when cut into.
Magic, his mind whispered, faint and disbelieving.
He tried a bit of this and a bit of that, still careful not to take too much. When he tasted something sour and pulled a face before he could stop himself, Ron and Fred burst out laughing.
“Mate,” Ron said, wheezing, “your face!”
Harry’s stomach dropped. He ducked his head, panic rising fast.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I’ll eat it. I didn’t mean-”
Hermione reached over and gently pushed the plate away from him. “Harry,” she said softly, “you don’t have to eat something if you don’t like it. That’s not rude.”
He blinked at her.
“It isn’t?”
“No,” she said firmly. “You’re allowed to have preferences.”
Allowed.
He nodded, cheeks burning, and focused on his plate until the heat faded. No one shouted, or tried to make him finish it anyway. The food he didn't like was replaced with something new to try instead.
When dinner ended, and Harry was full and sleepy in a way he had never felt before, the nice lady appeared once more at his side.
“Come along, Harry,” she said. “Madam Pomfrey will want another look at you.”
He hesitated, then stood and took her hand again. As they walked away, he glanced back at Ron, Hermione, and the twins, all waving enthusiastically.
Friends, he thought, still amazed by the word.
The castle lights blurred softly as they walked, and though he was tired, a quiet certainty settled in his chest.
If this was a dream, it was the kind you hoped never to wake from.
For a second, Harry entertained the thought of it being real. He liked that thought.
-
The white room did not feel as friendly this time.
Harry sat on the edge of the bed, legs swinging a little, eyes fixed very firmly on his socks. Madam Pomfrey bustled about, pulling curtains and bottles from shelves, humming under her breath. Professor McGonagall stood nearby, close enough that Harry could feel her presence without her crowding him.
“All right, my dear,” Madam Pomfrey said briskly, turning back to him. “I need you to lift your jumper for me, please. Just for a moment. Arms and legs as well.”
Harry’s stomach dropped.
“No,” he said at once, the word slipping out sharp and frightened before he could stop it. His hands flew to the hem of his jumper, gripping it tightly. “I’m fine, really. I don’t need anything.”
Madam Pomfrey paused. She did not scold him or reach for him, like Harry expected she would. Instead, she simply knelt so they were closer to eye level.
“I won’t hurt you,” she said gently.
Harry shook his head hard. His chest felt tight, his ears ringing. If they saw, they would know. They would see the marks and realize what he was. Bad children got hurt. That was how it worked. If you were good enough, quiet enough, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
“They were nice,” he said quickly, words tumbling over one another. “I ate the food and I didn’t complain and I didn’t break anything. I promise I’ll be better.”
Madam Pomfrey’s face changed then, something sharp and sad flickering across it.
“Oh, love,” she murmured.
She reached into her pocket and held out a small sweet, wrapped in shiny paper. “Here,” she said. “For being brave.”
Harry hesitated, then took it. Sweets were rare enough that his fingers trembled slightly as he unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth. It tasted of honey and something soothing, warmth spreading across his tongue.
Professor McGonagall stepped closer.
“Harry,” she said quietly, “look at me.”
He did, reluctantly.
“I will tell you as many times as you need me to, you are not in trouble,” she said. “You have not done anything wrong. Madam Pomfrey only wishes to see whether you are hurt, so she may help you. No one here will punish you for being injured.”
He swallowed. “But if you see,” he whispered, “you’ll know that- that I'm not a good kid...”
“I already know about the bruises,” Professor McGonagall said softly. “And I am still here. You're not a bad child, Harry. Me and Madam Pomfrey only care for you, okay? We do not wish for you to be hurt.”
That made his throat ache.
The sweet made his limbs feel a little heavier, a little calmer. After a long moment, he nodded, just once.
“Okay,” he finally managed, barely audible.
He lifted his jumper with shaking hands, and if the room hadn't been quiet before, it certainly was now.
Harry did not look down, but he did not need to. He knew what was there. Bruises in every shade, some yellowing with age, others dark and fresh. Finger shaped marks along his sides, and a thin scar crossing his ribs where something sharp had caught him once. When Madam Pomfrey gently rolled up his sleeves and trouser legs, there were more. Ankles. Wrists. Knees.
Professor McGonagall made a small sound, sharp and controlled, like a breath taken too quickly, and Madam Pomfrey’s mouth set into a thin, furious line.
“Oh,” she said very calmly. Too calmly. “My poor child.”
Harry’s shoulders hunched instinctively, waiting.
Instead, warm hands touched him, careful and light. A wand traced the air, murmuring charms that made the bruises tingle and then cool. The ache he had carried so long he barely noticed it began to fade, easing like a knot slowly undone.
“That one must have hurt,” Madam Pomfrey murmured, more to herself than to him.
Harry blinked. “It doesn’t anymore,” he said, surprised.
“That’s the idea."
By the time she was finished, the marks had faded to nothing, skin smooth and warm beneath his fingers. She pulled the jumper back down for him and wrapped him gently in a blanket.
“There we are,” she said. “All taken care of.”
Harry stared at his arms, flexing his fingers, waiting for the familiar sting of pain that did not come.
Professor McGonagall sat beside him again. “You did very well,” she said.
No one had ever said that to him before.
Harry leaned into the blanket, exhausted, eyes burning. He still did not quite believe any of it, but as Madam Pomfrey tucked him in and Professor McGonagall stayed close, Harry decided that this was his favorite dream yet.
They had seen, and they had not hurt him.
-
Harry slept, finally.
Madam Pomfrey had dimmed the lights and drawn the curtains, leaving only the steady rise and fall of his chest and the faintest crease between his brows as evidence of the day he had endured. Minerva lingered a moment longer than strictly necessary, watching to be sure he did not startle awake, before turning quietly on her heel and leaving the hospital wing.
The climb to the Headmaster’s office felt longer than usual.
She gave the password and stepped inside to find Dumbledore standing behind his desk, spectacles perched low on his nose as he shuffled through an alarming number of parchments. Letters lay scattered in careful disarray, some already sealed, others half written, the ink still glistening.
He looked up at once when she entered.
“Minerva,” he said, relief softening his expression. “Please, sit. How is Harry?”
She did so, folding her hands in her lap to keep them from trembling. “He is sleeping,” she replied. “Madam Pomfrey has seen to his injuries. Physically, he will recover.”
Albus nodded, though his gaze sharpened. “And otherwise.”
Minerva hesitated. “He is traumatised,” she said at last, the word clipped and precise, as though careful diction might keep her anger in check. “He is wary of touch, of food, of attention. He expects punishment for asking questions and gratitude for being fed, and apologizes when he is frightened.”
Albus closed his eyes.
“He does not believe kindness is safe,” Minerva continued quietly. “That will take time to fix.”
“Yes,” Albus said. “More time than we realized we were asking of him.”
He gathered the papers on his desk into a neater stack and set them aside. “I have begun making arrangements,” he said. “Harry will not be returning to the Dursleys. Not for Christmas, and not again if I can help it.”
Minerva’s shoulders eased slightly. “Good.”
“I am exploring several options,” Albus went on. “Provisions that would allow him to remain at Hogwarts during the holidays and during the summer. Or, failing that, placement with a family willing and able to care for him properly. Permanently, if need be.”
Minerva allowed herself a small, fierce smile. “You will find no shortage of volunteers.”
“I suspect you are correct,” Albus said gently.
They sat in silence for a moment, the fire crackling softly. Outside, the castle settled into a night full of stars, corridors dimming, students drifting towards their beds.
“At present,” Albus added, “his place is here. Where he feels safe.”
Minerva nodded. “He has begun to,” she said. “Tentatively. He laughed this evening.”
Albus looked up sharply. “He did.”
“Yes,” Minerva replied. “Quite loudly, in fact.”
For the first time that evening, Albus smiled properly.
“That is an excellent beginning,” he said.
Minerva rose. “I shall return to the hospital wing,” she said. “He should not wake alone.”
“Thank you, Minerva,” Albus said softly.
As she left, her steps were brisk but her resolve was ironclad. Harry Potter had been failed once.
He would not be failed again.
-
Harry woke slowly, floating.
That was the only way he could describe it. He felt light, as though someone had taken a great weight from his chest while he slept and forgotten to put it back. The bed beneath him was warm and soft, and even the air felt different, easier to breathe.
He stretched.
Nothing hurt.
The realisation made him go very still.
Carefully, almost reverently, he pushed up the sleeves of his jumper and stared at his arms. The skin was pale and unmarked, smooth where there had once been blotches of yellow and purple, places that ached if he moved too quickly or forgot himself. He turned his wrists this way and that, waiting for the familiar sting.
It did not come.
His hands did not shake. His shoulders did not throb. There was no sharp reminder to stay small and careful.
He had not known how much it hurt before.
Aunt Petunia never liked noise. Winces were noise. Flinching was worse. He had learnt to swallow it down, to lock his face into something blank and bearable until the pain blurred into the background. It had been easier not to notice.
Now, without it, he felt almost buoyant.
“Oh,” he breathed, the sound slipping out of him before he could stop it.
Someone nearby chuckled softly.
Harry turned his head. The nice lady stood beside the bed, hair a little less severe than usual, shadows beneath her eyes. She looked tired, he realised. Properly tired, the sort that came from staying awake because someone else needed you.
“Hello, Harry,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”
He nodded, slow and earnest, a smile creeping onto his face before he could hide it. “Yes,” he said. Then, because it felt important, he added, “Thank you.”
She inclined her head slightly, accepting it without fuss.
Harry looked back at his arms again, lifting them into the light, flexing his fingers, marvelling at how easy it was to move. He could not stop himself from smiling. He felt like himself, only better. Like a version of himself that was allowed to exist.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her watching him. The softness on her face faded as he turned away again, replaced by something tighter, sharper, something that looked very much like resolve.
Harry did not notice.
He was too busy enjoying the feeling of being unhurt, of being light, of waking up without fear for the very first time.
Minerva watched him for a moment longer, taking in the wonder on his face, the quiet joy of a child discovering a body that did not ache.
“It is still quite early,” she said gently. “You may go back to sleep, if you like. Morning will come soon enough.”
Harry looked at her, then at the pale light creeping through the high windows. He nodded at once.
“All right,” he said, pliant and trusting in a way that made her chest tighten.
He settled back against the pillows without being asked, tugging the blanket up to his chin. Minerva sat down beside him and, after a brief hesitation, lifted her hand and ran her fingers lightly through his hair.
Harry froze for half a second, before relaxing again.
Her touch was steady and slow, the same careful motion repeated again and again, as though she had all the time in the world. There was no impatience in it, no demand. Just quiet presence.
Harry’s eyes eventually fluttered closed.
This time, a small smile curved his mouth, soft and unguarded, and his breathing evened out within moments. He slept, truly slept, without tension or fear, soothed by the simple, gentle certainty that someone was there.
Minerva remained until he was well and truly asleep again, her hand moving through his hair in that same comforting rhythm, and made herself a promise she had no intention of breaking.
She would protect Harry Potter, for as long as she'll be able.
-
The next time Harry woke up, it was to confusion rather than fear.
The bed was unfamiliar, the ceiling too high and pale, and for a moment he lay still, blinking, trying to place himself. His body felt… normal. Properly normal. Limbs the right length, weight settled where it ought to be. He flexed his fingers once, experimentally, and felt nothing more alarming than stiffness.
Right.
The Hospital Wing.
What happened? He tried to wrack his brain for any memories reffering to why he's in the Hospital Wing of all places, but he didn't find any.
He turned his head.
Professor McGonagall sat beside his bed, though her head was tipped forward and her breathing was slow and even. She looked older asleep, he thought, lines at the corners of her mouth more pronounced. She must have stayed next to him all night.
That thought warmed and unsettled him in equal measure.
Madam Pomfrey was at the far end of the ward, sorting potions with brisk efficiency. He considered his options for a moment. Waking professor McGonagall felt rude, and pretending to be asleep felt childish. In the end, he simply shifted, and the rustle of sheets was enough.
“Ah,” Madam Pomfrey said at once, turning. “You’re awake. Good morning, Harry.”
“Morning,” he replied, voice a little hoarse.
She glanced at McGonagall and lowered her tone. “Let her sleep a bit longer, if you don’t mind. She kept watch most of yesterday.”
Harry frowned slightly. “Yesterday.”
“Yes,” Madam Pomfrey said, approaching the bed. “You gave us all rather a scare. A misfired Transfiguration exercise turned you into your younger self for a time. Entirely accidental, I assure you.”
He stared at her.
“I was what.”
“A child,” she said plainly. “About six, I’d estimate. Professor McGonagall took charge of you. You were returned to your proper age early this morning.”
Harry’s stomach flipped. He dragged a hand through his hair and let out a breath. “Bloody hell.”
“Quite,” Madam Pomfrey agreed dryly.
He looked down at his arms.
They were his again. Too thin, perhaps, but unmistakably eleven year old arms. And there, faint but visible beneath the hospital lights, were bruises. Not the angry constellation from his childhood, but still there. Yellowed shadows along his forearms, a mark near his ribs he had ignored for weeks.
His jaw tightened despite himself.
Madam Pomfrey followed his gaze. “Residual injuries,” she said. “Nothing serious. I can heal them entirely if you’d like.”
If you’d like.
The phrasing caught him off guard.
“I’m fine,” he said automatically, then hesitated. He was better at hiding it now, better at sounding casual, but the instinct was the same. “I mean. They don’t bother me.”
“They will,” she said matter of factly. “And there is no prize for enduring pain unnecessarily.”
He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. His chest felt tight, not with panic but with something else. Embarrassment, maybe. The lingering echo of being seen too clearly.
“I just need a minute,” he said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Bathroom.”
Madam Pomfrey studied him, sharp eyes missing very little, then nodded. “Second door on the left. Don’t wander.”
“I won’t,” he said, already halfway to standing.
He made it to the corridor before the urge hit him, sudden and overwhelming. Not fear exactly, but Harry wasn't sure it wasn't panic. He just the need to move, to put distance between himself and that bed, those questions, the version of himself everyone had seen.
He broke into a run.
The castle opened up around him, staircases shifting, corridors branching. He ducked down a side passage without thinking, heart thudding, breath sharp in his lungs.
Behind him, someone called his name.
He did not stop.
He had learned how to hold himself together. How to smile and deflect and endure. But being turned back into that child, even for a day, had cracked something open.
And he did not yet know how to close it again.
-
It took Harry a long while to move.
The room he had shut himself into was small and unused, one of those forgotten spaces the castle seemed to grow when no one was paying attention. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall, knees drawn up, listening to the muffled sounds of Hogwarts going about its day. Footsteps passed. Voices echoed and faded. Time stretched, thinned, and slowly began to behave itself again.
Eventually, the tight knot in his chest loosened enough for him to breathe properly.
He ran a hand through his hair, stood, and slipped back into the corridor, keeping his head down as he made his way towards the Gryffindor Tower. He was nearly there when hurried footsteps sounded behind him.
“Harry. Oi. Harry.”
He stopped.
Ron Weasley jogged up beside him, looking relieved and a bit out of breath. “There you are. Blimey, mate, we’ve been looking all over for you.”
Harry shrugged easily, the movement practised. “Went for a walk. Lost track of time.”
Ron studied him for a second, then asked, careful but direct, “You all right?”
“Yeah,” Harry said at once. Too quickly, perhaps, but he smoothed it over with a crooked smile. “Just tired.”
Ron nodded, accepting it without pressing. “Fair enough. Thought that might be it. Hermione was about ready to organise a search party.”
Harry huffed out a quiet laugh. “Tell her I’m fine.”
“Will do,” Ron said. They started walking again, side by side. “Professor McGonagall said you can talk to us if you want. Or not talk. Or just sleep. Whatever.”
Harry glanced at him. Ron’s tone was deliberately casual, his gaze fixed firmly ahead. No pressure, and no expectations.
“Thanks,” Harry said, a gratitude that meant more than the word could hold.
Ron grinned. “The dorms are quiet. If you fancy a nap, no one’ll bother you.”
That sounded perfect.
As they climbed the stairs, Harry felt something settle in his chest, small but solid.
He might not be ready to explain any of it, might never find the right words, but walking beside his best mate with no questions asked and an offer to help him sneak into the dorms when people were still looking for him, Harry could never be more grateful for Ron Weasley.
-
Harry had only just managed to settle himself properly in his bed when someone knocking startled him.
The knocks were sharp and insistent, rapping against the dormitory door in a way that suggested the knocker would not be giving up any time soon. Harry groaned softly, rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling for a moment before hauling himself upright.
“Coming,” he muttered, dragging himself out of bed.
He crossed the room and cracked the door open, peering out through the gap.
Professor McGonagall stood on the other side.
She was very still, hands clasped in front of her, mouth set in a firm line. Her eyes fixed on him at once, sharp and assessing, and Harry’s half opened door became fully open without him quite remembering deciding to do that. His shoulders pulled back instinctively, muscles tensing as though bracing for impact.
“P-professor McGonagall,” he stammered.
Guilt hit him hard and fast, curling unpleasantly in his stomach.
Running off had been stupid, and cowardly. And of all the people to do that to, he had done it to her. She had stayed with him, she had taken care of him, she had sat beside his bed while he slept.
And his repayment to her was running away the second he could, worrying her possibly even further.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, words tumbling over one another. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble, I just needed some air and then I sort of lost track of time and I wasn’t trying to make anyone worry, especially you, I-”
She raised a hand.
Harry shut up instantly, teeth clattering with the force of his tightened jaw.
For a long moment, she simply looked at him. Not angry, he realized, though her expression was stern. Tired, more than anything. And something else he could not quite name.
“May I come in,” she asked.
“Yes,” Harry said immediately, stepping aside.
She entered the dormitory and closed the door behind her with a quiet click. Harry stood awkwardly near his bed, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes fixed on a knot in the wood of the floor.
“I am not here to scold you,” she said at last.
That made him look up.
“You gave several people quite a fright,” she continued. “And you were wrong to run off without a word. But I understand why you did.”
His throat closed up. “You do?”
“Yes,” she said simply.
She turned to face him fully then. “However, you must understand something, Harry. You are not alone here, not anymore. If you are overwhelmed, you may leave a situation, or you may ask for space. But you do not disappear.”
He nodded, jaw still tight. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“I know that as well,” she said.
Silence settled between them, not uncomfortable, but heavy.
She sighed, the tension easing from her shoulders. “I came to see whether you were all right,” she said. “And to remind you that you are allowed to rest.”
Harry glanced at his bed, then back at her. “I was going to sleep,” he admitted.
“Good,” she said. “Then you should.”
She paused, then added, more softly, “You frightened me, Harry.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter this time. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” she replied. “Now, get some rest. We shall speak later.”
He nodded once more.
As she turned to leave, she hesitated, then reached out and rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. It was a simple gesture, light and deliberate.
Harry did all he could to not lean into the warm touch.
When the door closed behind her, he stood there for a moment longer, then crawled back into bed and turned off the light.
This time, sleep came easily.
-
That Christmas was the first he spent at Hogwarts, and the first one in which he got gifts, spent time with people he loved, and was truly happy.
McGonagall kept an eye on him at all times, but Harry couldn't help but notice a softness she had gathered for him.
He couldn't say he wasn't grateful for it.