Not in the Hands of Boys

"Have a seat, Mr Potter."

McGonagall's expression was stern as ever, although Harry had the feeling that she was uncomfortable somehow. It was rather unexpected; surely counselling him on his career options could not be that unsettling to her. Behind her back, Phineas Nigellus was sneering at him, but most of the other portraits were still gone from their frames. It made Harry wonder whether McGonagall was keeping her predecessors out of her office on purpose, because as far as he could remember, none of the frames had ever been empty back in Dumbledore's day.

He sat down in the visitor's chair in front of her desk and, when she didn't speak immediately, decided to get right to the point. "I've thought about the matter a lot this past week, Professor, but I'm afraid I still don't know what I want to do after school. I'd appreciate any advice you can give me."

He meant what he'd said; even after a week of wracking his brain, he had no idea what he was going to do with the multitude of choices he'd been offered so unexpectedly. He couldn't even have said which fields of work interested him most; all he could think of were things he didn't want to do. He'd lain awake for quite a while last night, pondering the issue with a growing sense of desperation. At some point he'd had a brief vision of ending up wearing a greasy apron behind the bar at the Leaky Cauldron; the image had made for some rather weird dreams once he'd finally managed to fall asleep.

McGonagall cleared her throat. "To be perfectly honest, Mr Potter, I find myself in a somewhat awkward position. As your teacher, I consider it my responsibility to help you choose the kind of career that's best suited for you - but as headmistress, I have to ask you something that's probably more in the school's best interests than in yours."

Harry frowned. The opening sounded ominous enough, but he wasn't all that worried since he couldn't think of anything truly horrible that McGonagall might ask of him. "The school's best interests? You're not offering me the Defence post, are you?"

He had meant it as a joke, but there was no mistaking the way McGonagall tensed ever so slightly. Harry felt his eyes go wide; suddenly all he could think of was the scene in this very room he'd witnessed in Dumbledore's Pensieve, the memory of Tom Riddle asking the Headmaster to let him come back to Hogwarts to teach.

"You are offering me the Defence post." McGonagall remained silent, as if she weren't sure what to reply. Harry was still trying to wrap his mind around the idea and failing quite miserably. "Professor, no offence, but you can't be serious. Of all the things I'm not suited to be, teacher is probably among the top three on the list!"

"Really." The lines creasing McGonagall's forehead deepened when she raised her eyebrows. "And yet you taught your classmates behind your teacher's back when you were fifteen, and now helped teaching NEWT-level Defence for a whole year. I don't know about you, Mr Potter, but that's not exactly my definition of not being suited for the job."

She grew very serious when she continued. "I won't lie to you, I'm not making this offer because you would be the ideal candidate for the job. I'm asking because I have tried for almost a year now to find a new Defence teacher, but I haven't been successful so far."

"But Snape's portrait -"

"- is no solution, and I think you know that very well," she cut him off. "A portrait just can't fulfil all the duties of a teacher - you saw for yourself how much work there was left for you and Mr Malfoy, and most of the younger students who were assisting with the teaching weren't up to the task at all. We can't go on like this for another year, and Professor Snape was the first to realise it, because he informed me months ago that he won't teach any more next year."

Harry frowned at Snape's empty picture frame in the corner. "Don't tell me he suggested that you should ask me to take over from him!"

She gave him a thin-lipped smile. "Indeed not, Mr Potter. He suggested that I should ask Mr Malfoy."

"Malfoy?" Harry had trouble believing that he'd heard her correctly. "Draco Malfoy? Has he lost his mind? As if people would ever put up with a -"

McGonagall held up her hand, interrupting him again. "The point is moot; Mr Malfoy has already accepted a different job offer. I admit that I might have asked him otherwise, though - like I said, I haven't been able to find someone so far. Voldemort may be gone, but rumours that he somehow cursed the Defence position are still about, and given the fates of the last few Defence teachers we've had..."

She didn't finish, but there was no need to; Harry closed his eyes for a moment, trying in vain not to think of Remus' cold body on the stone floor of the Great Hall.

"But he's gone for good this time, isn't he?" He hated the way his question came out; to his ears, he sounded like a petulant child. "If there ever was a curse, surely it was broken when he died?"

"I'm convinced that it was," McGonagall replied gravely. "Unfortunately, it doesn't matter very much what I think about the matter. Fact is, I couldn't find a replacement, so I'm facing a bit of a dilemma right now."

"And that's when you thought of me?" Harry couldn't help the bitter note that had slipped into this tone; hadn't he made it clear that he was done with being everyone's default saviour?

"No, to be honest." McGonagall leaned forward in her chair, fixating him with a look that was no less intense than Dumbledore's had been. Harry stubbornly didn't avert his eyes, although he found it rather difficult not to fidget under the scrutiny. "I never would have asked you if I hadn't witnessed your talk with Minister Shacklebolt last week. Before that, I was convinced that, no matter what you'd been through, you were still a long way away from the level of maturity that I expect from a teacher. I changed my mind, though, when I heard what you had to say to the Minister."

"That made you think that I'm mature enough to teach?" Harry shook his head in astonishment; right now he felt like an obstinate schoolboy when he thought back to his talk with Kingsley. "Sorry, but I'm afraid you've lost me, Professor."

The corner of her mouth went up for a second. "Don't let it concern you, Mr Potter. No matter how desperate I might be, I wouldn't offer you the post if I didn't think you were up to the task. I'm not asking you to teach for the rest of your life - just for two or three years, long enough to make people understand that it's not dangerous any more to teach Defence at Hogwarts. It would also give you time to decide what you really want to do with your life."

Harry bit his lip, thinking furiously. The suggestion made sense from a purely logical point of view. He would be given another respite before he had to choose a life for himself, and he could help McGonagall out in the process - her and the only place where he'd ever truly felt at home in his life. Again he was reminded of Tom Riddle, but he did his best to push the thought aside.

And yet the mere idea of becoming a teacher, even temporarily, seemed utterly ridiculous. There was a reason they hadn't let Tom Riddle teach at eighteen, even if he had been their most brilliant student - you had to be an adult first before you could teach children, and right now Harry felt that he still had a long, long way ahead of him before he reached that level of maturity. McGonagall might think so, but Harry wasn't convinced that telling the Minister no had anything to do with being all grown up. He'd managed to cross ministers since he'd been thirteen, after all, and it was only now, looking back, that he realised just how much of a child he had still been then.

"I'm not sure what to say," he confessed at last. "Everything else aside - Professor, I'm good at practical Defence, but Snape always reminded me how clueless I am about magical theory, and I don't think I -"

"Ah yes," McGonagall cut him off, suddenly all business. "Professor Snape has assured me that, should I find a promising candidate, he would gladly share his knowledge and experience beforehand to help that person prepare for the post. Just in case the candidate needed it, of course."

Her expression was deadpan, but Harry was sure that he saw a little sparkle in her eyes that looked downright mischievous, which was a very strange look on her. "Professor, you must be aware that he was thinking of Malfoy, not me, when he said that."

McGonagall shrugged. "He didn't specify that, so I'll assume that he'll keep his promise no matter who I choose."

"But - " Harry felt himself running out of logical reasons to refuse. "But I hate marking essays!"

The Headmistress leaned forward again, and Harry noticed with some alarm that the sparkle was back in her eyes. "I'll share one of the darkest secrets of my craft with you, Mr Potter: every teacher does. You get used to it, but you never, ever stop hating it with every fibre of your being."

Harry remained silent; he could think of no further objections, but that didn't mean he liked the idea any better. At long last, McGonagall took pity on him.

"I don't expect you to answer me right away. There's still a week left until the Leaving Feast; I suggest that you use it to consider my offer. Don't hesitate to come see me whenever you wish if there's anything else you want to discuss with me in the meantime."

* * *

The last week at Hogwarts passed in a strange kind of blur for Harry. There wasn't much left to do apart from packing, and he felt as if an invisible barrier was separating him from the buzz of excited expectation that had settled over his classmates, who were all occupied with plans, whether they were just about the summer ahead of them or about their whole life. He wasn't the only one who still hadn't made up his mind about his future career, and yet he felt that everyone else was looking forward with a sense of impatient anticipation; he alone would have loved nothing better than to stop the flow of time to postpone the moment when he would have to say goodbye to the place that had been the only real home he'd ever known, and to the people he had come to consider his family.

He knew that he was being maudlin, that he wasn't going to lose his friends just because he wouldn't meet them at breakfast every day any more, and that McGonagall's offer meant there even was a chance he wouldn't leave Hogwarts at all anytime soon. Still, no matter how he decided, the familiar life of a schoolboy would be over for good, and there was no telling yet what kind of life would replace it. He felt adrift, like a boat without oars out at sea; all he could do was hang on and see where it would take him.

Harry found himself envying Luna, who was so excited about her future work that she talked of little else, and Hermione, who kept poring over Ministry leaflets and made long lists about the pros and cons of every possible job she was considering. Ron had a faraway look on his face most of the time, and Harry could only guess what kind of scenarios Ron was imagining for his future work in the Auror Corps.

It was only he who still had no clue what to do with himself, and whether he should accept McGonagall's offer since he obviously couldn't come up with a better idea. He'd only told Ron, Hermione, and Luna about it, and reactions had been mixed: Luna was convinced that he would like teaching so much that he would decide to do it for the rest of his life once he'd tried it for real; Hermione was sceptical, but still seemed to think that he should accept the offer since the school needed him, and Ron was so horrified by the idea of Harry becoming a teacher that it made Harry feel a lot better about his own initial reaction to it.

There were moments when he found himself morbidly curious about what Draco would say if he knew Harry had been offered a job that Snape had wanted him to have. He hadn't spoken a word with Draco ever since the day of his failed Potions NEWT, although he was still wondering whether Draco had really meant to warn him during the practical. A year ago he would have dismissed the idea out of hand, but a lot had happened since then.

* * *

Harry didn't feel ready at all when he met Luna in the corridor outside her room to accompany her to the Leaving Feast. He knew that this would be their last evening as a not-quite-couple, and most likely their last night together afterwards since Luna was going to leave the following morning, but it still seemed unreal somehow, as if he had just imagined the end of his time at school and was going to wake up to another day of lessons the next morning.

The Great Hall was decked in blue and bronze. Ravenclaw had won the House Cup by a hair's breadth, with Hufflepuff coming to a close second place. Gryffindor and Slytherin were tied in third - Slytherin had less than half the number of students the other houses had, and even winning the Quidditch Cup had only helped them to avoid being last; meanwhile, Gryffindor had never managed to make up for the one hundred points Ginny had lost them at the beginning of the year. Harry didn't even glance at the banners; the times when house points had mattered seemed a century in the past, although he couldn't help remembering what Draco had said about giving his Slytherins reason to hold their head high.

He let the feast pass him by as if he were watching a play that didn't particularly interest him; the invisible barrier separating him from everyone else felt stronger than ever. McGonagall gave a speech, but Harry barely listened. Once the food had appeared on the tables, he ate mechanically without really paying attention to what he was eating; all around him, his classmates were chattering excitedly, but he couldn't bring himself to join in. If Ron and Hermione noticed, they didn't say anything, although Ron kept shooting surreptitious glances in Harry's direction when he thought Harry wasn't looking.

Harry got up from the table as soon as his plate was empty. The feast would probably go on for a while longer, but he suddenly couldn't wait to get away. He'd meet Luna in her room later, and there would still be time to bid everyone else good-bye the next morning. Right now, all he wanted was a bit of time for himself before he had to face the fact that his student years were well and truly over.

He went back to his dormitory, where Ron's trunk already stood neatly packed while most of Harry's belongings were scattered haphazardly across his half of the room. He had been reluctant to start packing so far, but now seemed a good time to get it done; at least it would give him something to do until Ron came back from the feast.

Harry couldn't help remembering Tonks' packing spell, which he'd never been able to cast properly himself, as he folded his clothes, stacked his books and sifted through the junk that had gathered at the bottom of his trunk in the course of the school year. He threw out a couple of broken quills, lots of chocolate frog cards, and several old essays that he definitely wouldn't need any more; however, he didn't touch the small bottle, carefully wrapped in a pair of thick woollen socks, that held the memories he hadn't wanted Lucius Malfoy to see. He knew he would have to put them back where they belonged some day, but right now he thought it best if they stayed right where they were.

Unwilling to dwell on the matter, Harry hastily reached for a scrap of parchment that held notes for an essay he had finished months ago. Underneath, he discovered another sock-wrapped bundle, thinner and more oblong than the other, that he had completely forgotten during the last months.

He hesitated for a moment before reaching into the trunk again and taking it out. It felt lighter than he remembered, as if its essence had faded away during the time it had been hidden. He held it for a moment, his thoughts racing; a flash of green light that cut through the death-filled gloom, never reaching its target -

There was one more matter to settle tonight. Harry quickly got up and made for the door before he could reconsider - he would probably regret this tomorrow, but right now it seemed like the right thing to do, even if he would have been hard-pressed to say why.