Several days later, Harry was called into Professor McGonagall’s study.

“How are you feeling, Potter?” she asked sympathetically. “Hot chocolate?”

“Err, I’m alright, I guess,” Harry said. He settled on the couch she gestured him to, feet swinging. “Thanks!”

He watched as she flicked her wand to summon her dented little saucepan, then broke chunks of chocolate into it and added some cinnamon.

Ron and Hermione had been keeping to his side pretty well, which meant he was less likely to have time to dwell on what had happened. Instead he’d been involved in many snowball fights, built a snow fort, snow-witches and a snow-troll, visited Hagrid, played with Fang, and read lots of books in the hope of learning more about Nicolas Flamel. 

It was only really at night that the loneliness hit him, hard. Madam Pomfrey had prescribed him dreamless sleep, but he was only allowed to take it every second day, because it was addictive. Snape had been there when she’d handed over the first dose, and had told an extremely dark and terrifyingly graphic story of a wizard who’d overdosed on dreamless sleep and ended up narcoleptic, prone to involuntarily falling asleep at the wrong time. The wizard also suffered from terrible nightmares because the amount of potion he’d taken had worked so his body was actually incapable of creating anything but a fear response when asleep.

 Hermione, who’d been with him, had clutched his hand when Snape described some of the nightmares the man had suffered, and gave a gasp when Snape revealed the man had died after he’d accidentally fallen asleep while levitating a couch over his head trying to move it upstairs. She’d made him promise to be careful, though since Madam Pomfrey made him come to the hospital wing for each dose he thought both she and Snape were being a bit silly. 

“Would you stir this while I get the milk?” Professor McGonagall asked, holding out the saucepan. Harry slid off the couch and held it over the fire, stirring absent-mindedly.

He didn’t feel so alone, though, once Ron and Hermione had started sleeping beside him. They’d brought mattresses down from their dormies, and blankets and lots of pillows, and thus slept in a heap on the common room floor. If it hadn’t still been holidays, it would never have been accepted, but they and the rest of the Weasleys were the only Gryffindors staying. Harry wasn’t looking forward to the day after tomorrow, when all the students would return and they’d have to move it all back.

“Careful, Harry!” McGonagall said, bustling over with a beaker of milk. He’d been tilting the saucepan sideways. 

“Oops,” Harry said, straightening it. Luckily none of the contents had fallen. 

“I always lose myself in the flames, too,” Professor McGonagall said, contemplatively. They both watched the flickering tendrils of flame for a few seconds, then McGonagall asked him to hold out the saucepan.

She poured the milk in while Harry kept stirring.

The porcelain cup Harry drank his chocolate out of had a gold-chased rim. There was a small chip near the handle.  He took a sip, and the chocolate was rich and hot and filling.

“Now, I wanted to see how you were going, but I also have something to discuss with you,” McGonagall said, warming her hands on her cup. “You’re not in trouble— and it isn’t urgent, really, but I thought it ought to be talked about sooner rather than later.”

Harry eyed her curiously. He had no idea what she was talking about. Surely if McGonagall had discovered that they knew about the third-floor corridor and Flamel she would have called all three of them in— and they probably would have been in trouble. 

“What do you mean?” he asked. “We’ll move all the bedding and stuff back up to the dorms before everyone gets back—”

“No, it’s not about that,” McGonagall said, a smile curling her lips. “I trust that Percy would see to that even if you three didn’t yourselves. It’s— hmm, it’s, well, rather more a sensitive topic than that. I wanted to talk with you about your aunt and uncle. About the Dursleys.” 

Harry, who had been taking a sip of hot chocolate, spat it back into his cup in surprise. 

“Sorry— sorry”, he said, red-faced. He wiped at his mouth with his hand. “I— oh. What about them?”

He was suddenly very aware that McGonagall was looking at him quite closely. Under her scrutiny, his cheeks heated up and he felt very small. 

“I visited them, that week,” McGonagall said. “Professor Dumbledore, Madam Pomfrey and I agreed that your family should be with you, in case—” she blinked rapidly, then took a gulp of hot chocolate. “My visit raised several concerns.”

Harry could guess what had happened. Clearly the Dursleys had refused to come, even after they’d most likely been told he was dying. He could just see Uncle Vernon gesturing wildly with a glass of wine in hand, face red— he’d say that since Hogwarts had taken him for the year, it was their own fault if he went and died on them, good riddance to bad rubbish.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “They don’t much like magic.”

It looked like Professor McGonagall was restraining herself from saying something very cutting about the Dursleys. She did a loud sniff and pursed her lips.

“That,” she said eventually, “seems to be the least of it. But in any case, I heard enough and saw enough in that visit… You won’t be going back there, Harry.”

He was nearly too busy imagining with dread what she might have heard to understand that last sentence.

“What?” he blurted out. That couldn’t possibly be true. Could it?

“You won’t be going back there,” Professor McGonagall repeated. “It’s a long while to the summer holidays, but I can say that for certain, Harry.”

A slow, cautious smile began to make its way onto Harry’s face. “Really?” he asked.

“Yes,” Professor McGonagall told him, a smile on her own face. “It isn’t yet settled where you will go for the summer, but you can be assured your wants and needs will be taken into consideration. As Gryffindor Head of House, I already was held in loco parentis for the year— and for now I have been named guardian on your papers.”

A warm, fluttery feeling took root in Harry’s stomach. This only grew when she said, “So anything you might have wished to talk to a— well, a competent guardian about, please feel free to come to me. Owl, if you wish, or visit— my door is always open. Or if you want some company, or just a place to nap.”

Something about the way she was looking at him, tender and warm and just a little shy of his response, made him flash back to how she had looked from inside the mirror, hugging Poppy Pomfrey and waiting for his return. She’d make a good aunt, Harry thought, remembering that. It wouldn’t be hard to be a better aunt than Petunia Dursley, but he was pretty sure that McGonagall wouldn’t just settle for ‘better than Aunt Petunia’.

“Thankyou,” he gasped out, a smile splitting his face. “I will, I will!” 

No more Dursleys! And there was this tentative, fragile new thing before them, too…

Years later he would look back at this moment, and others, and think just how rich he was in family. But now—

“This couch is very good for naps,” McGonagall said, eyes sparkling. “I’m not surprised. If ever there’s a sleeping cat on it, of course, you have to let them lie— but otherwise it’s free game.”

“Right,” said Harry. “I won’t forget that.”

And he never did.

The End.