Heart of a Lioness

Heart of a Lioness

Minerva McGonagall glanced in the mirror above the mantle in the staff room, straightened the jeweled brooch at her throat and winced at the pain the simple action had caused her.

"I am growing old," she murmured in her soft brogue. "Too old for this sort of thing."

Her shoulders and ribs pulsed with a powerful ache that Poppy's potions couldn't touch as she studied her face in the clouded glass. It had once been a pretty face - soft, white skin with sculpted cheekbones and large, luminous eyes that had sparkled with excitement when adventure was at hand. A tired old woman stared back at her now through the lines etched in deep furrows along the sharp angles of her face; and those eyes, now heavy-lidded and colored a dull gray, conveyed sorrow and exhaustion. The war was won, but the price had been far too dear.

When she'd Apparated into battle, she had fully intended not to return. Her students' lives were at stake, and she would defend them with her own, if necessary. They were her children - all of them - as long as they were within the walls of Hogwarts. She'd spent her entire adult life watching as each generation grew in skill and character, turning them loose on Leaving Day, year after year. She'd hoped as they entered the adult world that the values of self-discipline and fair play she had taught them would follow them through life. She'd be damned if all of the hard work and sleepless nights she'd spent on this particular group's behalf would go to waste. But she had barely had the chance to take a few good shots when a white-hot pain had exploded between her shoulder blades. The world had tilted crazily, the ground rising to meet her with alarming speed. All she could do was breathe in the loamy scent of the earth filling her nose and mouth as the sickening sounds of carnage rang distantly in her ears. Her children, her beloved school, were lost to her, she was sure of it - and she could do nothing to stop it.

But more than any other group of students, this current collection of Gryffindors was a force to be reckoned with. She awoke later to discover that they had defended their school and each other with fiery determination. Their penchant for diving into danger first and dealing with the consequences later had saved the entire wizarding world, but not all of them had been able to save themselves. She was exceedingly proud of them - but her heart was broken. In an angrily abrupt motion she pulled off her wire-rimmed spectacles and dashed at the tears that were always so close to the surface since Albus had visited her in hospital to recount what she had missed. She needed to be strong and objective right now - not a weepy old crone. But they were children, an inner voice wailed - children forced into an early adulthood, certainly, but too young to have borne witness to such horrors - too young to lose their lives in a battle against purest evil.

She replaced her spectacles with shaking hands, squared her shoulders and turned to the stack of parchments lying on the empty conference table. Stiff-backed and stony-faced, she pulled out a chair and slowly sank down into it. Her knuckles turned white as her gnarled fingers gripped the burnished wood of the table edge and she spent a few moments waging some kind of internal struggle. With a quick intake of air through her nose, she picked up her quill and flicked open the ink bottle. Slowly, she pulled the first piece of parchment to her and unseeingly loaded the quill. With the barest hint of hesitation, she held it over the page, then began to write:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Finnigan,

It is with deepest sorrow that I write to inform you of the death of your son Seamus...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Her task finished, she made her way back to her office. Drs. Chaudhri and Anderssen were surely finished with the room by now, and she was badly in need of a cup of tea. As she entered the corridor leading to her door, she saw a figure huddled in the lengthening shadows of the wall.

It was Harry Potter.

How long had he been sitting there - and where were his friends? It wasn't like them to leave him like this. He was so still. He looked young and vulnerable with his knees drawn up and his head in his hands. As he heard her footsteps on the stone floor, he lifted his head and turned toward the sound of her approach.

"Professor McGonagall?" His voice was raspy, as though it hadn't been used in awhile - or as though he'd been screaming in anguish. As had happened earlier in the day, she felt her heart lurch and her own eyes prickle with unshed tears at the sight of those bright green eyes so devoid of focus. She spoke briskly to mask her emotion.

"Mr. Potter, what are you doing here? It's quite late."

"I can't find my way back to the common room by myself. I'm sorry, Professor, but could you help me get there?"

There wasn't a trace of self-pity in his tone, but his jaw was working with the effort of having to ask. He suddenly looked much older - defeated and resigned. She marveled again, as she had for the past few years, at how much she loved this young man. She could never bring herself to say so, but this poor, motherless boy had become the child of her heart. She would die of embarrassment if anyone found out how soft she'd gone, but there it was. Under her watchful eye, he had grown from a neglected, wide-eyed waif into a strong and handsome youth. She had nearly burst with pride at his first Animagus transformation, and she smiled inwardly, remembering the many times she had almost pulled her hair out over his cavalier disregard for the rules. Her instinct was to kneel at his side and take him in her arms, but her sense of propriety wouldn't allow it. Instead, she grasped his elbow and helped him to his feet.

"Of course. Tell me, have you eaten yet?"

"No - it's okay, though. I'm not really very hungry."

He looked unkempt. His pale face was shadowed with stubble and his hair stood up more wildly than usual. His clothes were rumpled and he seemed a bit unsteady on his feet.

"Nonsense," she said, more forcibly than she meant to. "I haven't eaten either. Come inside, Potter."

He looked for a moment as though he might protest, then took on that expression of resignation again. She pulled his hand through the crook of her elbow and led him back into her office. Once he was settled in the chair next to her desk in the warmth of the fire, she conjured up a plate of sandwiches and a pot of tea and busied herself with pouring them each a cup.

"Milk?"

"No, thank you."

"Sugar?"

"Yes, Please."

He took the proffered cup and awkwardly stirred. Silence settled upon the room like a constricting net. Minerva was just beginning to think that this was a bad idea. He obviously wanted to be alone, or at least among his friends. What could she say to him that would not sound stiff and insincere? Here was the Boy Who Lived, having fulfilled the prophecy that had marked him all his life, trying to choke down a cup of tea to please her. He'd lost his friends and schoolmates, his eyesight and his future all in one day, and having done so, faced a lifetime of living in a world fraught with obstacles. She was unequal to the task of offering him real comfort - nurturing was not her strong suit. The pendulum of her wall clock ticked off the seconds in a steady crescendo. She had just begun to sip her tea when his ragged voice cut through the air and startled her into nearly dropping the cup.

"Professor McGonagall?"

She was dabbing at the spill with a napkin, but stopped abruptly at the intensity in his eyes as they stared at a point in space just over her shoulder.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?" She spoke in carefully hushed tones, recognizing that a dam was about to burst.

He felt along the edge of the desk for his saucer and set the cup down with a loud clink.

"What is bravery, really?"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Potter?"

"Bravery. You know - the pride of Gryffindor - the thing that makes us special - the stuff that heroes and legends are made of - courage, pluck, nerve, guts, derring-do and all that effing rubbish..." His face was bitter, and his rising voice had taken on a slightly manic edge.

"I'm aware of the definition - and so are you, apparently," she replied dryly, reverting to her usual brusque manner in the face of his impending display of temper.

He began to fidget, looking as though he would pace the room if he could.

"Yeah, I know the definition," he snarled quietly. "But what is bravery made of? What makes us hurl ourselves into the sacrificial fire?" he said sarcastically. His voice was shaking now, and his chest rose and fell rapidly as he brought himself back under control. When he spoke again it was in carefully measured tones.

"You know what I think it's made of?" He picked up a sandwich and absently began to work it flat in his fingers.

Minerva regarded him thoughtfully, almost afraid to ask. She kept her tone crisp. "What, Mr. Potter?"

In a burst of barely controlled rage, he winged the sandwich unerringly into the fire and bellowed, "I think it's made up of equal parts recklessness and stupidity, propelled by an over-inflated sense of self, that's what I think! There's no such thing as a bloody hero - a hero is nothing but a bloody fool who doesn't know where the line between being lucky and being dead sits!"

His face was bitter with self-loathing, and he dropped this pronouncement like a gauntlet, fully expecting her to launch into a lecture on Gryffindor integrity or some such rot as his words still hung in the air.

He didn't expect her to burst into laughter. It was an oddly musical sound - he had never heard her laugh before.

"Oh, Mr. Potter!" she managed to gasp. "I do believe that is the best explanation of the Gryffindor mindset anyone's come up with to date!"

She wiped at her now-streaming eyes, unsure of why she was crying. She was suddenly consumed by a sorrow for her fallen students so fierce she could scarcely breath. Before she could analyze that, semi-hysterical laughter bubbled to the surface again as she applied Harry's words to her own actions over the years, along with all of the other Gryffindors she had known in her lifetime, and she looked at him fondly as she quieted. His expression had melted into one of bemusement. The dam was safe for the moment.

"Mr. Potter.... Harry."

His chin lifted toward the sound of her voice.

"If you're wondering whether you did the right thing by retrieving Mr. Malfoy, I cannot tell you. Only time and your own perceptions will help you answer that." The fire guttered, sending a swirl of sparks into the chimney. "If you're asking me if the price was too high, I would have to say yes."

His brows knitted as his face clouded with bitterness once again.

"But you must know..." and here, her voice faltered a bit, then softened. "But you must know that my sense of fairness is a bit skewed when it comes to you. You are an extraordinary young man, and I have become quite fond of you over the years."

Her brisk manner returned.

"There. That needed to be said before you left this school. I have become quite fond of you, and if you will forgive me," her voice took on a hint of amusement. "I am not all that fond of Mr. Malfoy, though this last stunt of his definitely showed merit if we're using your definition of bravery as a model."

Harry sat across from her in stunned disbelief, then slowly smiled, the bitterness fading just a bit.

"Thanks, Professor."

"Don't mention it. Have a sandwich, Potter."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Later, when she'd ushered him back to the common room, she paused before giving the password.

"Mr. Potter."

"Yes, Professor?"

"One more thing - and I am speaking from experience. Allow your friends to stand by you - do you hear me?"

He was silent, but his face was set in lines of discomfort and doubt. His eyes darted around as though futilely seeking an escape route and he tensed as if he wanted to flee. Without stopping to think, she tenderly laid her hand against his cheek. He stiffened at her touch then suddenly, looking as though he might weep, lowered his head as his sightless eyes dropped to the floor. The torch above them hissed softly into the silence - its erratic light glittering in the brooch at her throat and glistening in the jet strands of his hair.

"You made this decision on your own, Harry, but you don't have to live with it on your own. Do you understand?"

He hesitated for a bit, then nodded reluctantly, his head still bowed.

"Good." She patted his cheek with awkward affection, then gave in to impulse and kissed him brusquely on the other. "Then you'd best get to bed and sleep on it...Phoenix feathers!"

The portrait swung open to reveal Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley on their way out - to look for Harry, no doubt. The relief in their faces was evident as they drew him inside and led him to the sofa by the fire where Ginny Weasley waited, her expression schooled into placid lines, her voice soothing and low as she greeted him with a gentle embrace.

Not sure that she had convinced him, Minerva leaned against the Fat Lady's frame and closed her eyes in exhaustion as another unexpected wave of sorrow shook her.

"Don't sleep there, Duck! Off to bed with you now - these children need you rested and strong. Bunch of reckless daredevils, the lot of them, you know!"

Minerva jumped at the sound of the Fat Lady's voice and turned in time to see her wink and waggle a finger in mock rebuke. She thought for a moment. True enough - her children did need her no matter how tired and heartsick she was. In the aftermath of this war, young wizards and witches would still need an education. The price had been terrible, but the Wizarding World had not ended. Hogwarts still stood as it always had - her home and the source of her strength - strength she would draw upon to get through the days and years to come. She had fulfilled the role of teacher for forty years now, and suddenly felt up to putting in another forty as long as students like Harry Potter and his friends kept coming through the door. With a trace of a smile, she squared her shoulders and saluted the Fat Lady smartly, then turned and made her way back to the solitude of her rooms.

The End