That week was hell.
Harry was already hugging the toilet, throwing up, before he could even reach for his glasses on the nightstand. Cold water on his face was the only real comfort. At least the headaches had eased up a bit, now they only showed up at night.
But what was really tearing him apart was Malfoy.
If Harry had already been thrown off by the blond's occasional stares before, now he was losing his mind. Malfoy was watching him at every meal. And it wasn't discreet—he turned his whole head, eyes drilling into Harry with an intensity he couldn't even begin to decipher.
And as if that wasn't enough, during shared classes, Malfoy made sure to always be nearby. In Potions, for instance, he switched seats without a word to Professor Slughorn and dragged Zabini along, settling at the workbench directly behind Harry's. The audacity was so absurd Harry nearly turned around to chuck a bowl of bezoars straight at his face.
Clearly, he'd told his friends. At least two of them.
Zabini, for one, was keeping an eye on Harry in the dormitory. And not just with glances, on a particularly rough morning when Harry could barely lift himself off the bathroom floor, it was Zabini who brought him his glasses. And then stood at the door for far too long, studying him with those chocolate-brown eyes, like he was trying to solve some complicated equation.
Nott was the other one.
Harry had no idea why the boy was even taking Care of Magical Creatures, a class that clearly demanded more empathy than he seemed capable of, but there he was. And now, every time an animal was brought out to be touched or fed, Nott was watching. Not discreetly. Not casually. Watching.
Harry wasn't stupid.
Malfoy had sent them to keep an eye on him.
And that left him baffled, because if Malfoy didn't want the baby, why did he care so damn much?
It pissed Harry off, especially since he didn't even know what he wanted yet, and he hated feeling like someone else was pulling the strings.
The remnants of the war didn't help either.
Having two Slytherins practically glued to him like shadows made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Muscle memory kicked in, the constant vigilance, the paranoia, the tension, it all came rushing back like a punch to the gut.
He caught himself thinking, more often than he'd like, that if he had the baby, he wouldn't just be surrounded by Gryffindors and one Ravenclaw. He'd be surrounded by Slytherins.
And that sent a shiver down his spine.
It wasn't fair.
None of it was.
And no matter how hard he tried to think clearly, the combination of nausea, exhaustion, fear, and the persistent feeling of being watched like a ticking experiment was pushing him right to the edge.
Hermione seemed to be starting to suspect something.
Not that it was hard, Zabini and Nott stuck to him like bodyguards hired by a paranoid Minister of Magic. Anyone with half a brain would be raising an eyebrow. But so far, she didn't seem to have connected the dots. And Harry silently thanked Ron for keeping his mouth shut.
Not that he fully trusted that.
Every time the redhead made some offhand comment like "Ugh, I don't like blondes" or "Zabini's kind of weird, isn't he?" , Harry felt the urge to slam his head against the nearest wall. Sometimes, he suspected Ron was leaving breadcrumbs on purpose, like tossing riddles into the air might somehow help him cope.
But what was really driving him mad was… everything.
The irritation came out of nowhere.
A classmate breathing too loudly in the library. A botched spell in Transfiguration. A spoon clinking against a bowl. Even the way Hermione's quill scratched the parchment made his teeth clench.
And of course, he knew why.
The baby. The fucking baby.
And still-
Even with the constant nausea, the exhaustion that clung to him like a curse, and the short fuse that made everyone and everything feel unbearable-
Harry was growing attached.
He realized it on a day he almost left for the greenhouses without his scarf. Took two steps out and came back.
Not for himself, but because he thought, "What if I catch a cold? What if that affects the baby?"
And slowly, he started thinking about them before skipping meals, before accepting a duel, before walking down corridors where he knew he might get stressed.
Not that it helped.
His patience was still hanging by a thread.
He still couldn't look at himself in the mirror.
He knew there was nothing visible yet, his stomach was the same, the muscles unchanged. But in the shower, when his soapy hand slid over his belly, it felt like the secret was burning beneath the skin.
He knew that if he looked, really looked, stood naked in front of the mirror, it would all feel more real than it already was.
Sometimes, he remembered the weight of Teddy asleep in his arms. The soft breath against his neck, the tiny fingers clutching his shirt like they trusted him with the weight of the world.
And he thought about what it might be like to hold his own baby.
And it hurt.
To think he would have a child that was truly his. That he could look at them and know, "I made you. I carried you." And the love that came with that thought was so immense, so uncontrollable, that for a moment he almost understood his mother, the sacrifice, the courage, the instinct to protect no matter what.
He wanted his mum more than ever.
He wanted to curl into her arms and hear that everything would be okay. He wanted to ask if this was normal, the fear, the love, the constant anger. He wanted to be held. He wanted what he'd seen Petunia give Dudley his whole life.
What he never got.
With every memory of locked cupboards, days sweating in the garden with no water, nights in the cupboard under the stairs listening to dishes clink just outside, he was more certain.
He couldn't give this up.
He couldn't give up the baby.
Even if logic screamed at him. Even if his life was about to be turned inside out. Even if the other parent was Malfoy, the most unbearable, reckless idiot to ever exist.
Because if he gave up now, he knew, with the clarity of someone who grew up alone and hungry, he would never forgive himself for denying a child the chance to be loved the way he had always wished to be.
His rational side screamed that he already had Teddy for that, a war orphan, like him, who deserved all the love in the world. And while Andromeda seemed more than willing to give him that love, she was nearly fifty. She could still take care of Teddy, and seemed confident doing so, but a voice in Harry's head insisted it was his task too.
They could grow up together, his baby and Teddy. Teddy would have a room in his house, that was a fact, but the baby's could be right next to it. The walls could be painted with care, little animals on the curtains, a rocking chair near the window. He could do that.
He didn't need a job. He could dedicate his life to raising them both, and the thought terrified him as much as it warmed his chest.
"Potter, you alright in there?"
The voice came through the bathroom door, and only then did he realize he'd been standing there, staring at his reflection, fully dressed after a shower… for who knows how long.
"I'm fine," he replied, stepping out of the bathroom, only to find Zabini watching him from the hallway. Harry felt instantly uncomfortable.
"Besides you and Nott… who else did he tell?" he asked with a sigh, hoping that the right answer might somehow ease the storm inside him.
"Daphne," Zabini answered, looking mildly embarrassed. "She shares a dorm with Granger and has contacts inside the Daily Prophet , in case anything leaks."
Harry rubbed his face, realizing that no, that answer didn't bring any comfort.
He gave a nod and walked over to his bed, laying down and pulling the blankets up, searching for some shred of warmth, of comfort. He heard Zabini move, probably going back to his own bed, but he ignored it, focusing instead on himself, on the letters from Mrs. Weasley he still hadn't read.
One of them spoke about the cold in Ottery St. Catchpole and how lovely it would be if he visited. Molly asked if he was eating well, if he was taking care of himself, if he wanted more pumpkin preserve. The letter smelled of care and nutmeg, and by the time he finished reading it, he had made up his mind.
He got up from bed, pulled on a coat, and rummaged through his bag for the Marauder's Map.
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," he whispered, and the names began to appear. Hermione was just entering the tower.
"Mischief managed."
He descended the stairs and found her with Ron, just stepping into the common room. He walked right past Malfoy, who was staring at him with unnerving focus, and reached for Hermione's hand, pulling her into a corner of the room.
Ron followed them, as he always did.
Harry cast a privacy charm and swallowed hard, locking eyes with Hermione's brown ones. They were filled with worry.
"The other father is Malfoy."
The confession came out in a whisper. He watched her eyes widen immediately, her gaze snapping toward the blond, who looked like he knew exactly what they were talking about.
"I'm going to kill him," she muttered through clenched teeth, and Harry glanced at Ron, who was watching his girlfriend like she was his whole universe.
"Mione, knowing that… do you think I should keep the baby?"
She turned back to him, her angry expression softening into something far gentler.
"Harry, that decision is yours."
"That's not what I asked."
Hermione sighed, thoughtful, her voice steadier now.
"I think it's something that would change your entire life, tie you to that prick Malfoy forever, and probably shut a lot of career doors for you." She spoke quickly, like these thoughts had long been sitting in her mind. "But I also think very few people would make as good a parent as you, Harry." Her voice turned warmer. "I think a child would be someone you'd love unconditionally, someone you'd do anything to make smile. And that… that's something beautiful."
Harry glanced at Ron, then back at Hermione.
"If I had this child…" he started, but Hermione cupped his face in both hands, looking at him with the calm he so desperately needed.
"Then no one would care that it's Malfoy's. That child would be loved by all of us. And you'd have our support through every step, yours and the baby's."
His eyes burned.
"You want to keep it, don't you?" Ron asked, his voice gentle, almost proud.
Harry nodded, feeling exposed, fragile, but for the first time, certain.
"Then let's do this."
The sob that broke from his throat was involuntary, and Hermione pulled him into a tight hug, wrapping him in the kind of affection he'd longed for his whole life.
And in that moment, he knew.
Malfoy didn't matter. The stares, the nausea, the fear, they didn't matter.
He would not be like the Dursleys.
He would know how to love, and this baby, this baby would be loved until the end of the world.
"Did you tell him?" she asked softly.
"I did." The answer left his lips in a whisper, almost a breath, as he closed his eyes for a moment and let himself relax into the comforting scent of Hermione's perfume, so familiar, so safe. "He said he'll take responsibility."
Hermione slowly pulled back, still watching him with that rare kind of tenderness that only comes from genuine love.
"He'd have found out what real consequences are if he hadn't said that," Ron muttered matter-of-factly, his voice low but laced with threat. He cast a not-so-subtle glance toward the Slytherin on the other side of the room, who now seemed to have chosen to ignore them with his usual brand of arrogant elegance.
Harry let out a small, humorless laugh, feeling his heart beat a little louder in his chest.
"Fuck... I'm going to be a dad." The words slipped out low, almost like he was still trying to convince himself it was real.
He felt pats on his shoulder and looked at Ron, who was staring at him with a small, shy, but honest smile, the kind of smile that only comes when words aren't enough.
"We need to talk to the headmistress and Madam Pomfrey," Hermione said, slipping back into her automatic problem-solving mode, logic anchoring him in a way he didn't know he needed. At that moment, Harry felt like crying from relief that she was like a sister to him.
He nodded, swallowing hard.
Yeah, he would have to talk to the headmistress. To Pomfrey. To Malfoy, more times. To the world, eventually. But in that instant, in that very second, everything felt less impossible.
Not because the situation had gotten easier, but because he was no longer alone.
He started thinking about what to do next. Christmas break was coming soon... He could stop by Grimmauld Place to check out the rooms. He'd renovated the house after the war; it was almost cozy. Almost. Except for the attic, which he'd deliberately avoided since he left the Monster to guard his stuff there. What exactly that stuff was, he had no idea, but he didn't have the stomach to find out either. One battle at a time.
He sighed.
He could pick one of the rooms near his own for the baby's, already imagining where the crib would go. Of course, he'd have to renovate the space. Choose a decoration. Find out the gender. Choose a name. A name.
Ah, right. It would be a Potter. No matter what the hell Malfoy said about it. Nor his family, nor the pureblood snobs grumbling in the dusty corners of the Ministry. He was carrying this kid, he would give birth to it. It was a Potter. And anyone who disagreed could go lick the floors of Azkaban.
Annoyed with his own train of thought, mostly because he was thinking too much about Malfoy, he let out a loud, irritated sigh and looked at his friends. The warmth of their presence pulled him back to the now. He smiled faintly and flopped onto the couch next to them, the cushions sinking under his weight. He saw Ron grin before lazily conjuring a fire in the hearth, then sitting cross-legged on the rug facing him. Hermione settled beside him, with the air of someone who wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.
"You're going to be unbearable now, aren't you?" he murmured, resting his head on her shoulder with a dramatic exhaustion only he could pull off.
"Yes," Hermione confirmed calmly, like she had already accepted the mission to take care of him for all eternity.
Harry let out a short laugh, already regretting it.
"You're going to have to eat better," Ron started, raising a finger like he was listing commandments. "Let's see if you're bundled up enough, you're not leaving the castle on snowy days—"
"It's always snowing, it's December, Ron," Harry grumbled, eyes half-closed, already tired just hearing it.
Ron shrugged, unfazed.
"Well, that's your problem then. You're stuck inside. The kid didn't ask to be exposed to Scottish weather."
Harry huffed, still leaning against Hermione, who gently stroked his hair like she was calming an annoyed cat. And he was annoyed. With everything. The headaches, the vomiting, Malfoy, the overprotectiveness… and mostly with the fact that he genuinely felt better right there, between the two of them. He hated that. Loved it.
"Just let me pick the name before you start putting coats on my belly," he muttered, eyes closed.
"That depends on the name," Ron said seriously. "If it's some weird mix of Dumbledore and Snape, I swear I'm ghosting your life."
Harry smiled, tired and irritated, but genuinely calm for the first time in days.
"Relax. I'm thinking of a name that'll scare Malfoy."
"Voldemort Potter?" Hermione suggested with a light irony, and Harry burst out laughing, the sound coming deep from his belly.
"My kid's born with enough bad luck, Mione. I'm not gonna make things worse at the registry office."
The fire crackled behind them. For a moment, Harry let his head rest again on his friend's shoulder, allowing himself to close his eyes. The world was still a mess. But there, among the smell of burning wood, sweater wool, and old book perfume, everything seemed bearable.
Even with the snow. Even with the nausea.
The conversation lasted at least an hour, and Harry felt, in that moment, like he was a kid again. Before Voldemort came back. Before carrying the world on his shoulders. When he could still sit in front of the fire, warmed, listening to Hermione and Ron arguing over tests. It was good.
But like everything good lately, it had an expiration date.
The headache began to throb slowly behind his eyes, his tense muscles begged for bed, and he no longer had patience for any conversation, not about N.E.W.T.s, not about that ridiculous Malfoy, not about absolutely anything.
He stood up with an exaggerated sigh and stretched like his whole body was at war with him. He muttered something to his friends, a thrown-away comment like, "You two can be a couple now if you want, I just wanna lie down," and left the common room without waiting for a reply.
The stairs to the dorm felt longer than usual. And, of course, his brain decided to sabotage his own peace with the relentless thought of Malfoy. The Slytherin. The damn father of the baby.
Before he could even rationalize, he found himself standing in front of Malfoy's dorm door, fists clenched, jaw locked. He took a deep breath, once, twice, then knocked twice before opening the door with a determined move.
The scene almost made him forget, for a moment, why he had come. Neville was smiling, cheeks flushed, at something Nott said, and Merlin, something was definitely happening between those two. Great. Maybe he wasn't the only one making questionable choices.
"Harry." Neville noticed him first, and the worried look he gave reminded Harry he wasn't there to socialize "Are you okay?"
Harry nodded shortly. "I'm fine," he replied automatically, feeling the eyes of Neville, Malfoy, Nott, and Zabini on him. He hated himself for it, for always being the center of something, even when all he wanted was to sleep for fourteen hours straight.
"Malfoy?" Harry called out, not even bothering to sound polite.
The blond jumped up and followed him with all the enthusiasm of a house-elf being dragged off for punishment. Harry caught Neville's look, way too understanding, and quickly turned his face away, annoyed.
They entered his dorm, still empty, and Harry didn't waste a second. He sat on the bed, flicked a quick privacy charm with his wand, and went straight to the point.
"I'm having the baby," he said, locking eyes with Malfoy. No beating around the bush. No explanations. He didn't owe that idiot shit.
He saw, just like the first time, the mask forming on Malfoy's face. The boy looked like he was analyzing something technical about potions, not a human growing inside Harry's body.
And that pissed him off.
"Okay," Malfoy finally said, swallowing hard.
Harry blinked. Waited. The silence stretched out. Nothing more.
Was that it?
"That's it? Okay?" His voice came out sharp, like every letter was scratching his throat. "I tell you I'm having a kid, a kid yours , and all you can say is 'okay'?"
Malfoy raised an eyebrow, almost bored. "What did you expect?"
"I expected something that at least pretended you have blood in your veins," Harry snapped, already standing up. Too tired to deal with emotions processed at aristocratic snail's pace. "It's a child, Malfoy. Yours. Ours. A baby. That I decided to have."
He saw Malfoy's eyes narrow slightly, his shoulders tightening.
"I know that."
"Then act like you know," Harry shot back, crossing his arms and leaning against the bed, already regretting coming up here.
Malfoy let out a deep sigh, running a hand over his face, which almost made Harry laugh nervously. That damn dramatic pure-blood "too tired of life" gesture. Maybe he could pull that with his parents, but not with the guy carrying a fetus in his womb with his magic.
"I'm trying to do this the right way, Potter," Malfoy said, finally seeming to lose some of his composure. "I'm not exactly a model dad or partner, and I'm trying to process that… this is happening."
"Welcome to the club. The difference is, I'm processing it with cramps, dizziness, and nausea at five in the morning," Harry replied, standing up from the bed. "And you don't have to be a partner, Malfoy. You just have to not run away."
Malfoy stared at him in silence, and for a moment Harry saw something real there. Something like fear. Not the cowardly kind, but the kind that only shows up when something truly important is on the line.
"You hate me," Malfoy said at last. It was almost a statement.
Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes.
"Today? A little. But it's progress. Yesterday, I wanted to shove a chair up your ass," he answered, taking off his glasses for a moment, running his hand over his face before putting them back on. "Just… don't pretend this isn't a big deal. Don't react with 'okay' like I told you I was returning an overdue book. This isn't a loan, it's a human being."
Silence.
Harry took a deep breath, fighting the rising nausea, and continued with a quieter but firm voice.
"I'm going to pick a name. I'm going to set up a room. I'm going to stay up at night when they cry. And you're going to decide now if you're going to be part of this or not. But if you say yes, you're in. No half measures. No pretending everything's fine while acting like you want to run away. I've seen too many people run from their responsibilities in this life, Malfoy."
He turned his face toward the blond, his eyes more tired than angry now.
"Don't disappoint me too."
And for the first time that night, Malfoy seemed to actually listen. His body relaxed, the mechanical coldness left his eyes, and he nodded. No rehearsed lines, no sarcasm. Just a nod.
"Alright. I'll try. For real."
Harry crossed his arms, staring at him for a moment. Then he sighed.
"Good. Now get out before I throw up on your Italian leather shoes."
Malfoy took a step back automatically.
"It's suede, actually."
"Great target," Harry replied dryly, then flopped back onto the bed, burying his face in the pillow with a muffled grunt.
Harry woke up with a mild burning in his throat, but for the first time in days, managed to grab his glasses before his stomach reminded him hell existed. Still, he wasn't lucky enough to escape the nausea, rushed to the bathroom, and vomited less violently than usual, a progress he was already willing to celebrate.
He sighed, resting his forehead against the cold bathroom tile, trying not to think about the smell of the potion Madame Pomfrey had given Dean, stored in the bathroom cabinet.
After brushing his teeth harder than he should and splashing cold water on his face until his eyes stung, Harry threw on the first clothes he could find, an old school shirt, two hoodies, a tangled scarf, and the pants closest to the bed. His stomach still churned, but the nausea had eased enough for him to pretend he could stand.
When he got to the Great Hall, his eyes found Hermione and Ron sitting at the eighth-year table, talking quietly. Both looked worried, Hermione was biting a nail, and Ron nervously fiddled with his sweater sleeve.
Ahead, standing near the door like a guard dog way too fancy for the job, Malfoy watched the hall with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of a dark gray coat, way too sharp for eight in the morning. He glanced briefly at Harry, and something on his face, maybe the effort to appear calm, only made Harry's discomfort grow.
"Shall we?" Harry said, dryly. The words came out sharper than he intended, but he didn't bother softening them. Patience was not in his vocabulary.
"You're not even gonna eat?" Ron asked, frowning. Genuine concern laced his voice, but it sounded like a complaint.
Harry huffed, irritation burning in his eyes.
"Ron, I just fought with the toilet. You want me to eat and fight the floor now?" he snapped, grumbling.
Ron seemed about to reply, but Hermione nudged him gently in the ribs and gave him that sharp look that clearly said don't start now, for Merlin's sake. He shut up.
He knew it wasn't just him nervous about having to talk to McGonagall, she might not even be the head of their house anymore, they might've won a war and grown up, but it was still unsettling to have to give her news like this.
Without another word, Harry turned and left the hall. Hermione was right behind him, quick steps, and Ron followed silently, looking awkward.
Malfoy took a bit longer. His pace was slow, almost calculated, like he was on a runway. Harry heard those measured footsteps behind him and got even more annoyed. It was like the idiot was enjoying the moment.
A sidelong glance told Harry that Ron had noticed Malfoy too. The redhead narrowed his eyes, his jaw moving as if chewing on his own tongue to keep quiet. Hermione looked over her shoulder as well, her gaze at Malfoy a mix of suspicion and quiet analysis, as if she was still figuring out exactly who he was in this mess.
The silence between them was thick.
They reached the stairs leading to the headmistress's office, and Malfoy, as if suddenly in a rush, quickened his pace to walk alongside Harry. The sharp, citrus scent of his cologne nearly made Harry's stomach twist again.
Hermione shot him a sidelong glance.
Harry took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment before starting up the steps with heavy steps. Behind him, the three followed quietly, and the tension, though held in check, still lingered, taut like a stretched rope about to snap.
The atmosphere was strange. Too familiar with his two friends, too unfamiliar with Malfoy. Uncomfortably strange. Deeply uncomfortable. And it was only Saturday morning.
McGonagall greeted them with tired eyes over her glasses, as if she expected a dragon to burst through the ceiling at any moment.
"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, and… Mr. Malfoy," she said, a slight surprise in her voice seeing all four together. "I imagine this isn't a casual visit."
Harry sat down, and immediately his palms began to sweat. This wasn't facing Voldemort. This was much worse. Clearing his throat, he averted his gaze from the headmistress's figure and stared at a random spot on the polished wood table.
"Professor," he began hesitantly, already hating how weak his voice sounded. "I need to tell you something."
McGonagall simply tilted her head, giving him time, as she always did when she knew a student was about to break.
"It's… I" he stopped, took a deep breath. He could feel his friends' eyes on him. "Something happened. To me. And it's serious." Another silence, another lump in his throat. "I… am pregnant."
He spoke in a tense whisper, as if confessing a crime. For a moment, McGonagall didn't react. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe. She just looked at him, and strangely, there was no judgment in her eyes. Only surprise.
"Ah," she said finally, lowering her eyes to the desk. "Well… this… this isn't exactly what I was expecting."
Harry felt his stomach twist again.
"But… are you alright?" she asked gently now.
Only then did he manage to breathe.
Harry nodded slowly, still staring at the wood of the desk. "More or less. Madam Pomfrey confirmed it's three weeks. It's only the sixth week of pregnancy… we're still figuring everything out."
McGonagall nodded too, as if processing the information as methodically as possible. She opened a drawer, took out a small stack of parchment, and began to write something, probably just to give herself a moment to think. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, just tense.
"I understand this is an unusual situation," she said measuredly. "But not without precedent… biologically speaking." She cleared her throat. "Still, Mr. Potter, this represents a significant change in your life. In your school routine. In everything."
"I know," he murmured.
That's when McGonagall looked up over her glasses and glanced discreetly at Ron, who was still standing like a statue beside Hermione.
"And I presume Mr. Weasley…?" she began, cautiously stepping on thin ice.
Harry felt panic twist in his stomach for a moment, until he saw Ron go pale and open his mouth to protest.
"No!" Harry and Ron said at the same time, almost in unison. Ron even took a step back, as if the words were spiked.
"Of course not, Professor," Hermione said, pressing her lips to hold back a laugh. "Do you really think Ronald would've stayed quiet if it was him?"
"Excuse me? I kept it secret, for weeks, mind you," Ron shot back, crossing his arms, but his face was paler than usual.
McGonagall raised an eyebrow, as if that only confirmed her initial suspicion. Harry covered his face with one hand, completely flushed.
"The father… is Malfoy," he said softly.
McGonagall blinked. Looked from Ron to Hermione. Then to Harry. Then to Malfoy, as if he had just conjured a troll in the room.
"Oh," was all she said, a second of absolute silence. "Well. That explains… some things."
Harry didn't want to ask exactly what that explained. McGonagall sighed, closing the parchment she'd been scribbling on.
"I need to speak with Madam Pomfrey. I will make the necessary adjustments to accommodate your needs, Mr. Potter. Don't worry about that right now." She looked at him with that hard-yet-kind expression Harry knew so well. "But I would like to see you at regular intervals. And please, don't hide anything. Understand?"
"Yes, Professor."
She stared at Malfoy for a moment. "And Mr. Malfoy is aware of the responsibility this entails, I presume?"
"I am, Headmistress," Malfoy replied, his voice surprisingly steady.
She nodded, weary.
"Well. I didn't expect this to be how my day would start. But it's not the most absurd thing I've seen at this school, so…"
Ron coughed to hide a laugh. Hermione just smiled, comforting Harry with a hand on his back. McGonagall took a deep breath, then stood up.
"I know you expected more from me," Harry said, almost in a whisper. "And I'm sorry." He felt the need to apologize, and for a long moment she stayed silent. Then McGonagall walked over to him with calm steps and, without a word, placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Mr. Potter," she said, her voice firm but softer than he expected, "I did expect you to be brave. To have the heart to do what you believed right, even when it's hard. And in that, you have not disappointed me."
Harry lifted his eyes, surprised. The professor's expression was serious, but there was no judgment there, only the kind of steady strength that said she would be there, that he was not alone.