Knocks on Doors
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes were on fire with a furious migraine.
“Hold on,” Ron said questioningly, propping himself up on his elbows. Even now he was relatively bedridden, as Madam Pomfrey was still working to heal his internal wounds. “So Snape thinks You-Know-Who’s on to him?”
Harry found Ron’s eyes.
“Assuming he’s telling the truth about any of this, of course,” Ron quickly amended.
Harry nodded and instantly regretted it. A piercing throb of pressure clawed mercilessly at his temples. Shoving his fingers under his glasses, he rubbed hard at his eyelids before speaking in a pained whisper. “Yeah. Apparently Voldemort hasn’t said anything about my confrontation with Pettigrew.”
“Or Pettigrew didn’t tell Voldemort,” Hermione thought aloud.
Ron frowned. “Why wouldn’t he?”
Hermione shook her head lightly, thinking hard. “I can’t be sure. But it has to be a possibility, hasn’t it? It doesn’t seem logical that Voldemort would trust Snape enough to tell him about the Horcruxes, and even send him to retrieve one, but not trust him enough to tell him about something as relatively insignificant as a fight.”
Harry pushed his glasses back up his nose with an audible sigh. “She’s got a point.”
Ron looked skeptical. He tilted his head back against his pillow tiredly. “Not everything’s logical, Hermione.”
“Yes, Ron, I’m aware,” she returned. “But we’ve got to consider every possibility, and it seems only””
“Logical?” Ron smirked.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. She opened her mouth to retaliate but was cut off by Harry’s anguished hiss.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, standing and moving to kneel beside him.
“This bloody headache,” he groaned, his eyes shut tight, his forehead pushing into the palms of his hands.
“Maybe you should go lay down,” she suggested, resting a concerned hand on his shoulder.
The flush of pain subsided momentarily and Harry dropped his hands to his knees. Eyes still shut, he leaned back in his chair, face blindly upturned to the ceiling. “I can’t,” he sighed, “I’ve got to wait up for Lupin and McGonagall.”
“Why aren’t you down there, anyway?” Ron asked, referencing the emergency Order meeting Lupin had called when Harry and Hermione had told him of their encounter with Snape.
“Ronald!” Hermione said, scandalized, as she turned to face him. “Can’t you see he’s in pain?”
Harry hurried to answer the question before his two friends had an opportunity to bicker. “I didn’t feel like reliving the story a third time in one night. But before the meeting’s over Lupin and McGonagall are supposed to come get me so I can be there for the final decisions.”
“What final decisions?” Ron asked.
“Mostly just who’s going to be part of the security cover for McGonagall when she meets with Snape next week.”
“And where to go from there,” Hermione added thoughtfully. “We should try and anticipate the possible outcomes of the meeting. We don’t want to be at a loss for what to do when it’s over, however it turns out.”
“Good luck,” Ron muttered darkly.
Hermione crossed her arms over her stomach and fixed Ron with a silencing glare. “You’re not helping.”
“My, how quickly your temperament changes depending on whether or not I’ve been sacked by Death Eaters,” he remarked pseudo-casually. “Reckon you’d feel right awful if I suddenly went missing tomorrow.”
Hermione’s mouth hung open in shock. “How can you joke about that?!”
Harry’s eyes shifted wearily between the two as they quarreled. Eventually, the unbidden memory of Hermione confessing to him that they had kissed bombarded his already-aching mind. Immediately, Harry’s gaze fell on Hermione’s lips as he imagined them pressed to Ron’s.
“I’ve got to use the loo,” he said suddenly, standing. The thought gave him trouble breathing.
Hermione stopped arguing and looked up at him from behind a set of listless eyes. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Harry nodded slightly, careful not to make any sudden movements in case his migraine attacked again.
Moments later, he was shutting the door behind him and stepping into the shadowy safety of the dark hallway, shielded against the haunting image of Hermione and Ron, as if the visual evaporated along with the light.
He breathed a little easier.
He was leaning against the railing of the small balcony attached to the bay window in Sirius’ old room, arms folded over each other, when she finally found him. A warm breeze swept across her exposed arms as she stepped out into the moonlight.
“Harry?” she asked tentatively.
He turned his head over his shoulder. “Hey.”
She took a small step forward, wary of his frame of mind. He looked exhausted. “Did you want to be alone?”
Harry’s gaze drifted off for a moment to land on the floor. After a minute he seemed to have made up his mind. “No, it’s fine. I was just letting Hedwig out,” he said, turning his eyes back to the creeping dawn that was poking pink fans of light over the housetops.
Hermione came to stand beside him, leaning against the railing as well, but facing him instead of the open sky. “How’s your headache?” she asked sincerely.
“A bit better. I don’t know. I can’t tell,” he sighed. His eyes were heavy, and he blinked slowly as he watched Hedwig whiz across the horizon.
Hermione watched him, confused. “What do you mean?”
Harry shrugged and looked off in the opposite direction of Hermione, as if she was a distraction that wouldn’t allow him to find words. “I can’t tell whether my head hurts from the headache or from… everything else.”
Hermione’s heart lurched at the trauma in his voice.
“Between Hagrid, Snape, the constant battles breaking out across the country… not to mention this,” he said, lifting a small glass compass out of his pocket. “I just don’t know where to begin.”
Nodding in understanding, Hermione inched closer so she could speak more quietly. “I know, Harry,” she consoled. “But it’s one step at a time. Tonight, worry about Snape. Tomorrow, worry about the Horcrux… and leave most of the battles to the rest of the Order. They haven’t got near the burden you have. They can handle one aspect of the war on their own for now.”
Harry exhaled perceptibly, giving a slight nod and tucking the compass back in his pocket.
A pregnant pause ensued for several eternal seconds. Hermione fumbled around for something wise to say, something that might relieve, even temporarily, his painful uncertainty; but Harry spoke first.
“How’s Ron?”
Hermione blinked. “Oh… well, Madam Pomfrey was with him when I left. She’s performing some more healing spells.”
Harry nodded absently, shifted his weight to his left foot and turning his head an inch more in her direction” but he said nothing else. The green of his eyes hazed over and fell victim to a light crease between his brows as they peered out across the scattered rooftops.
“What are you thinking?” Hermione asked eventually. She wanted him to be able to vent his worries to her, and she knew he wouldn’t without prodding.
Harry’s eyes fell a fraction of a centimeter. “Just… that Lupin’s taking an awful long time with this meeting.”
Hermione surveyed his face closely, chewing thoughtfully on the side of her mouth.
“Please don’t lie to me, Harry,” she finally said, her voice making her sound far more confident in her allegation than she felt. “You can tell me, you know.”
“Come off it,” said Harry, not meeting her eyes, “why would I lie about something like that?”
Hermione didn’t answer. She shifted her gaze from Harry to her hands, fidgeting with the hem of her top. She looked up to the sky and saw Hedwig was gone, off soaring somewhere beyond her sight. Collecting every last ounce of courage in her body, she tucked her hair behind her ears and turned back to Harry.
“Nothing’s happened between me and Ron,” she blurted.
She felt Harry go rigid beside her. “Oh,” he muttered. He swallowed thickly.
“Not since… not since the one time, I mean,” she corrected, speaking quickly, as if doing so would make the moment less uncomfortable.
“Right,” replied Harry, sounding oddly formal. “Great. I mean” right. Okay.”
“I just didn’t want that to be something you were thinking about,” she confided, secretly glad that Harry wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I just thought you would… that you should know.”
Harry nodded stiffly in response.
“It’s just, you never really let me explain””
“There’s nothing to explain,” Harry cut in, sounding more defiant than he’d intended. Softening his tone, he sounded despondently resigned as he added, “I always sort of suspected, anyway.”
Hermione looked surprised. “You did?”
Harry flashed her a confirming glance before returning his eyes to the sky. He cleared his throat roughly.
“Oh,” she mumbled.
A long, ringing silence met their ears. In the near distance, several grasshoppers greeted the rising sun with a chorus of strings… but it was not enough to distract Harry’s thoughts. His mind began to reel with the sound of Snape’s slithering voice.
“I seem to have struck a nerve… the Weasley girl will be most displeased.”
“I won’t pretend I never suspected myself,” Hermione said meekly, sounding apologetic but looking determined to say everything she was feeling. “But Harry… you know it never amounted to anything.”
Harry’s throat was running dry, but he swallowed and forced a brave face. “Until recently.”
Hermione’s head fell to stare at the floor guiltily. “Well, I don’t really… I don’t actually count that.”
Harry looked at her incredulously. “You don’t count a kiss as meaning something?” he asked defensively.
Hermione heard the hurt in his voice and blanched. “No!” she said hurriedly. “I mean” yes! Yes, it means something,” she hastened to explain, feeling her heart drop like an anchor to the pit of her stomach. “I only meant that””
There was a sudden knock on the door that, with her already wired-out nerves, made Hermione jump.
Harry rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “It’s just Lupin.”
A second later, Remus Lupin edged around the balcony’s door and motioned behind him with his thumb. “Harry, you’ll want to come downstairs now.”
“Finished telling them about Snape?” he asked, trying to sound casual while avoiding the way Hermione’s worried gaze was still focused on him.
Lupin shook his head, and seemed to do so in slow-motion, as if he was just too tired and worn to move any other way. “Actually, we’ve just received an owl… I think you should take a look.”
Confused, Harry found Hermione’s eyes on instinct before looking perplexedly at Lupin.
“Owl? From who?”
“Scrimgeour. He’s requesting an ‘audience with the Order,’” recited Lupin, his expression tightening into a look of carefully-suppressed resentment.
Harry stood motionless in shock. Hermione stared at Lupin, her mouth half-open in surprise.
Before she could ask any questions, Harry was reaching for his robes and heading to the door. And the look of resentment on his face was not so carefully suppressed.
Harry pushed forcefully through the kitchen doors, on fire at Scrimgeour’s arrogant request, but stopped abruptly when he saw exactly how many people were there.
Six dozen, at least, and the kitchen itself had obviously been magically expanded. Harry could only attach names to a quarter of the faces staring back at him. He blinked around the room in surprise.
“Everyone, this is Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, but the newcomers’ expressions at his entrance had made it very plain that the introduction wasn’t necessary.
“Err, hi,” Harry said awkwardly. The room muttered a breathy “hello” back, their voices laced in the awe still plastered across their faces.
Lupin and Hermione walked in, and Hermione’s eyes widened to saucers. She stood firmly beside Harry, scanning the room full of strangers. “Wow,” she whispered.
At that moment, Ron stumbled in, looking pale and especially lanky with the weight he’d lost, but also determined not to miss out.
“Ron!” cried Mrs. Weasley instantly, rushing towards him. She grasped his shoulders lovingly and asked, “How are you feeling? Are you quite sure you’re well enough to be out of bed?”
“I’m fine, Mum,” he mumbled, his ears turning 50 shades of red.
Mrs. Weasley fretted under her breath, but let him stand alone beside Hermione and Harry. “Whoa,” he breathed, “who are all these people?”
Hermione shook her head. “I’m not sure… I’m guessing new additions. But usually only the higher-up Order members attend these secret meetings. This is more than I’ve ever seen.”
“I reckon they might be recruits from other countries,” Harry whispered to them, then pointed to a blonde man standing amidst a small crowd of younger-looking wizards. “That bloke in the blue robes has got the Beauxbatons crest on his pocket.”
“Everyone, this is Ron Weasley” Arthur and Molly’s son,” Lupin began from the other side of the kitchen, “and Hermione Granger, Harry’s friend. They’ve been helping Harry for years, and though they’re young, we consider them mature and experienced enough to be here.” He then turned to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “The new faces you see here are some of our friends from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. They’re representing their respective countries’ efforts against Voldemort”” several wizards gasped, one witch nearly fainted and the others gave violent shudders” “but Madam Maxine isn’t here tonight. She’s working on something else for us at the moment.”
Harry nodded and tried to offer an appreciate smile to the crowd.
“We were just finishing our discussion on the recent developments regarding Severus when this came,” said Professor McGonagall, flicking her wand and sending a piece of fancy, foiled paper floating towards Harry.
Harry unfurled it and held it out so Hermione and Ron could read.
Professor McGonagall,
I will skip the usual preamble. I send this owl with a humble request: an audience with the ‘Order of the Phoenix.’ Please, let us pervade pretenses” I know you are an involved party, and I do not presume to judge. Actually, I think it time that the forces against You-Know-Who unite, and I would very much like the opportunity to share intelligence and confer on what our next steps should be. I genuinely pray that we can ignore past differences in favor of fighting this common cause. I do believe the times call for it.
Kindly send word when your decision has been reached.
Sincerely Yours,
Rufus Scrimgeour
Minister of Magic
Harry crumpled the letter into a tight ball.
“‘Share intelligence,’” said Hermione heatedly. “What he means is, we share our intelligence with him. They haven’t got any. Why else would the Ministry be reaching out to the very group they’ve spent the last two years slandering?”
“Exactly,” Harry said, his fingers turning white with the force of his grip around the letter.
“It could be ze good opportunity,” suggested a short French woman standing beside Moody. “You would not haft to hide your… ooperations, as you do now.”
“Sophie’s right,” said Kingsley, standing from his seat in the corner and moving towards the center table. “I know the Ministry’s been despicable, but if they start supporting us, we could gain some valuable resources.”
“It would almost triple our numbers,” offered a stocky, dark-skinned man with a heavy Bulgarian accent.
Hermione could tell Harry was struggling hard to restrain his anger. His lips thinned as his teeth clenched; he looked sharply away from the group to clear his head.
Hermione said what Harry would have if he’d trusted himself to speak. “I’m sorry, but that’s being awfully naïve. We know how the Ministry works. They don’t want to help us, they want to help themselves.”
“Haven’t they done enough to prove they can’t be trusted?” Ron jabbed, surprising Hermione and Harry with the strength in his voice. “We’re better off without them. They’d slow us down with their… decrees, and red tape, and all that bullocks.”
No one said anything for several consecutive moments. Hermione saw Harry’s eyes close and knew he was thinking hard.
“Ms. Granger, Mr. Weasely,” McGonagall finally spoke, “We, more than anyone else, can comprehend your frustration. I don’t think for a minute that the Minister’s motives are as sincere as he’s portraying them to be.”
Hermione’s shoulders relaxed with relief. At least McGonagall understood.
“But that does not mean the benefits wouldn’t be to our favor as well,” she continued, adopting a more familiar, stern tone. “Now isn’t the time to hold grudges just for the sake of proving a point. We can do that after we’ve defeated You-Know-Who.”
Hermione sighed. Logically, she knew McGonagall was right. Ron chewed thoughtfully on the side of his mouth, considering her words.
Harry still hadn’t said anything, and it worried Hermione to see him so silent.
“Would it mean Scrimgeour would have to come here?” Ron asked.
Kingsley shook his head. “No. We’d have to select a team to meet with him on Ministry premises. We couldn’t risk letting him know the location of our Headquarters.”
“Bloody hell,” Ron exclaimed. “How dodgy is that? Parading up to the Ministry? Do any of you actually read the Daily Prophet? Some people in this room are wanted ‘criminals,’ don’t forget.”
“Ron’s got a good point,” said Tonks. “We should meet with him on neutral grounds. Hogwarts, even.”
“If we meet with him,” Harry amended in a low voice.
The room quieted again. Everyone peered silently in Harry’s direction.
“We should just see what he has to say. That’s all. I agree we shouldn’t jump to conclusions and assume the Ministry is being genuine,” said Lupin, breaking the silence. Then, after a long pause, he decided it was time to offer a bit of insight from beyond the grave. “Even still, Dumbledore would not want us to pass up a potential opportunity to stop Voldemort just to spite the Ministry, Harry.”
Harry looked at Lupin. He held the older man’s gaze for a long time before breathing deeply and turning to consult Hermione with his eyes. She gave a small, approving smile.
Harry finally nodded his consent.
“How can he sleep?” Hermione whispered scathingly, glaring hard at the side of Ron’s sleeping form. “It’s all I can do to get in an hour most nights.”
Harry didn’t say anything. It was the following evening, and the three had spent the entirety of their day planning out the upcoming meetings with Scrimgeour and Snape.
Ron had fallen asleep on the red velvet lounge chair around 9. Hermione envied his ability to pass out so quickly. The dark colors of the library’s long, stately curtains combined with the soft cracking of the fire made her yawn and stretch out along the couch, but her mind was still working furiously.
Tentatively, she asked, “What are you thinking?” half-hoping the question would bring about an opportunity to finish their earlier conversation, before Lupin had knocked on the door and interrupted them.
Still, Harry said nothing. He only looked into the fire, dazed, his hands resting idly on his knees.
“Harry?”
His head snapped up. “What? Sorry. I was thinking.”
“What about?”
Harry’s chest heaved in a deep, tired sigh. He stretched his neck and leaned back against the armrest, facing Hermione, his eyelids barely holding themselves open. “Everything. Scrimgeour. Snape.” After a moment, he added, “Trying to decide who I hate the most.”
Hermione managed a tiny smile. “I’ve already decided on that.”
“Yeah?”
“Umbridge.”
Harry let out a snort of a laugh.
“I like to blame her for most things,” she smirked. “The Prophet. Horcruxes. Voldemort. Inferi. Your wretched cousin. The whole nine yards, really.”
Harry laughed. Ron snored and kicked at an invisible monster, whimpering something that sounded very much like “run” and “tarantula.”
Hermione’s stomach fluttered at seeing Harry’s boyish grin make an unexpected cameo, even though she knew it would quickly fade. It had been so long since he’d really laughed.
After a few minutes, though, his face predictably resumed its serious character as he peered back into the writhing flames of the fireplace.
“When is the meeting with Scrimgeour again?” she asked, fully knowing the answer but also knowing it would do him well to speak his thoughts.
“The day after the meeting with Snape,” he scoffed.
“Do you believe him?”
Harry’s head tilted toward her. “Who?”
“Snape.”
He breathed heavily through his nose. Licking his lips, he turned away and considered his words. “I don’t know.”
Hermione nodded thoughtfully. She joined Harry in staring deeply into the rising flames for a long while, listening to the light howl of the wind softly vibrating the windows. She tried to focus on her thoughts instead of how close her shoulder was from brushing against Harry’s hand.
The grandfather clock sang in the sound of midnight. Hermione glanced sideways at Harry. The orange glow of the fireplace reflected off his glasses.
She took a deep breath. “Harry?”
He turned his head in her direction, releasing the light that was trapped behind his glasses. “Yeah?”
Hermione cleared her throat nervously. She reached into her brown messenger bag sitting on the floor and pulled out a book-sized rectangle dressed in shiny red paper. It had curls of gold ribbon sprouting from the center, like a firecracker frozen in time.
“Happy birthday,” she muttered in a breathy whisper. She cleared her throat again.
Harry’s face lit up in surprise. He sat motionless for an extended second, as if struggling to register her words and visualize the day’s date on a calendar. Was it really July 31 already?
She handed him the small package. “You don’t have to open it now,” she told him. She started to stand, prepared to leave him alone with the present.
Harry stared at the shimmering gift in his lap.
“Wait,” he called, reaching up and grabbing her wrist before she’d made it completely off the couch. He gently tugged on her arm, gesturing for her to sit. She did so hesitantly, her cheeks suddenly flaring in a shade of red deeper than that of her present.
Harry, still a little dazed, picked at one side of the wrapping and lifted it open. A small piece of parchment tumbled out.
He glanced up at Hermione before unfurling the folded square.
Harry,
I remembered how, over the years, you would always open up the photo album Hagrid gave you when things got hard. It always seemed to comfort you a bit, even in darker moments. I figured you would appreciate more of the same now, what with everything that’s going on.
I want to tell you that I’m incredibly proud of you, Harry. Your parents would tell you the same if they were here. And I want to tell you a million other things, perhaps beginning with how much you mean to me, and how as long as Ron and I are here, you should never feel like you’re on your own. But sometimes, I’m not as articulate as everyone thinks. Sometimes I don’t know how to tell you, or even if that’s the right place to begin. But, you know what they say. A picture’s worth a thousand words. If that’s true, then maybe this will say all the things I can’t.
Happy birthday,
Hermione
Harry’s chest swelled with warmth and looked up to find Hermione’s eyes, but they were averted to the floor. He valiantly stifled the strange prickling behind his own.
His fingers pulled open the rest of the packaging. A soft black, leather-bound photo album rested between the papery wrappings. In the center, a scrolling, gold font read:
Harry grinned widely. He flipped to the first page and found an 11-year-old-self blinking bewilderedly up at him. His photo-self kept squinting into the picture and then backing away, as if the photographer had caught him off-guard. Of course it was probably Colin Creevey.
He turned half-way through the book, and this time he was standing, laughing raucously, underneath his favorite Weeping Willow tree by the lake at Hogwarts. Ron was with him… he had his right arm draped casually around Harry’s shoulders as he wore his trademark lopsided grin. Harry remembered Hermione taking that shot. It was the day after the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, when Ron had finally believed Harry’s story about not submitting his own name to the Goblet of Fire.
Several pages later, and Harry was met with the only picture in existence of he and Sirius together. They were sitting at the kitchen table in Grimmauld Place, presumably the summer before fifth year. Sirius was spreading jam on a piece of toast as he talked to Harry, who was listening attentively with half his back turned toward the camera. Just before the end of the magically-moving scene, photo-Harry looked over his shoulder at the photographer and both he and Sirius waved with tired smiles.
He’d forgotten about that moment completely. It was when Sirius had told him the entire, detail-strewn story of how he and his father had become animagi. Harry shook his head in disbelief. He couldn’t believe he’d almost lost that memory forever.
A few pages after that one, and it was Christmas time in their fifth year; Harry stood talking animatedly to Hagrid in the Great Hall, looking frustrated (over Umbridge, probably). Photo-Hagrid patted Harry lovingly on the shoulder, buckling photo-Harry’s knees. Harry’s eyes stung with tears as he watched the scene play out nearly a dozen times.
Eventually he flipped to the very last picture in the album. He was standing beneath a flowery lattice in the Weasley’s back yard, donning his best dress robes and smiling bashfully into the camera: Bill and Fleur’s wedding day. Then Harry watched as his photo-self gestured to someone outside of the frame, urging the unseen person to join him. Finally, Hermione emerged in a sky blue dress, blushing as she shot glances to the camera. When she reached Harry, though, she wrapped her arm around his waist and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Photo-Harry’s eyes dropped to the floor as he shyly snaked his arm around Hermione. Just as the scene ended and began replaying, they both lifted their heads and smiled broadly through time and space.
“I left a few empty pages in the back,” Hermione whispered, bringing Harry back to reality. “I expect we’ll need them one day.”
Harry looked up from the album and found Hermione’s eyes. The words he wanted so desperately to say caught in his throat. He swallowed thickly.
“Hermione,” he whispered, in awe, looking back at the picture and fingering the corner lightly.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t find one of you and Dumbledore, but I’m going to keep looking,” she said, feeling increasingly uneasy about whether dredging up old photos was a proper birthday gift. “I know it’s not much, really, I just thought since”” her words broke off when Harry let the album fall between them on the sofa as he leaned closer to Hermione… so close, she swallowed the rest of her sentence in a surprised gasp as his hand cupped her face.
She looked into his eyes and found them swimming in a pool of poorly-masked emotion. They peered into her, wide and searching. Hermione stopped breathing.
“Hermione,” he whispered again, his voice raspy and his eyes never leaving hers. “It’s perfect.”
Slowly, an inch at a time, he leaned further toward her, until she could smell his warm, distinct scent. Her lips parted slightly, and she was shocked to realize her hands were clutching at Harry’s shirt.
He paused. He dropped his gaze to her lips, then raised them back to her eyes. Behind his own, an internal war raged. Eventually, he leaned down and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
Hermione’s stomach was in knots. She fought off the feeling of disappointment.
Before she could register exactly what that meant, and before Harry had even completely pulled away, a loud, pounding knock resonated throughout the room.
Harry jumped back in surprise. Hermione, head spinning, released her grip on Harry’s shirt with a startled yelp. Ron gave a furious snore and tumbled around on the lounge chair.
“Potter? Are you in there?”
Heart racing, Harry gulped and tried steadying his nerves. “Yeah,” he called out, forcing his eyes to survey Hermione. She was staring wide-eyed at the floor.
McGonagall strolled in and didn’t bother to shut the door behind her. “I thought you three”” she glanced over at Ron, still sleeping, “”or you two, at any rate, should be the firsts to know.”
Harry’s interest was piqued enough that he tore his eyes from Hermione. “To know what?”
McGonagall’s expression softened noticeably. “I’ve just been to a consultation with the school governors. Hogwarts will not reopen this year.”
Harry looked away. He’d been expecting this sooner or later, but that didn’t cushion the blow.
“I’m sorry, Potter. Granger. It’s not that we think Hogwarts wouldn’t be safe. It’s that most of the teachers, myself included, would be far too busy helping the Order to manage a school. I’m afraid I don’t possess Albus’ multi-tasking abilities.”
Neither Harry nor Hermione said anything for a long while. Eventually, Hermione said in a miserably low voice, “We understand, Professor.”
McGonagall offered them one last look of sympathy. “There’s always next year,” she told them, before exiting the room.
Harry looked at Hermione. Her face was hidden behind a veil of brown curls.
“It doesn’t matter,” she shrugged, fighting valiantly to mask the sorrow in her voice, “You weren’t going back anyway, and I wouldn’t have without you.”
Then she stood, grabbing her messenger bag, and walked silently to the door. She stopped just before it, and turned to look at Harry with sad eyes.
“Happy birthday.”