The Marauders: Year Seven Part Two

You Have Thirty Minutes

James sat in the chair opposite McGonagall's desk. The office was silent, save for the ticking of the clock on her fireplace mantle. She stared at him from her seat, her hands folded on the desk before her, her eyes stern, searching James's face. His eyes were traveling over the various items on her shelves and desk, looking at tea cups and saucers, ungraded papers, and a tin of biscuits.

She drew in a breath and James thought she was about to speak, so he looked at her, but the moment their eyes met, she exhaled heavily and adverted her eyes.

James shifted in his chair, his long legs sprawling out before him in the space between the seat and the desk. He looked down at his legs, at his feet and his trainers, and he thought about the first time he'd sat in this very same chair, seven years ago. His feet hadn't even touched the floor then.

"I'm not a little kid anymore," he said. His words weren't defiant, they weren't harsh or argumentative. They were nostalgic, full of realization. The crisis of a young man. McGonagall looked at him and her face quivered. For the first time, she seemed almost old to him. He said the only thing he could think to say. "I'm sorry, Professor."

McGonagall closed her eyes a moment, and her jaw shook ever so slightly, then she opened her eyes once more and looked straight into his. "I have had many, many students, Mr. Potter, and I do not doubt that I will have a great many more. But in all of my days of teaching, you will always be my favorite student."

James felt his throat constrict and he looked down at his feet again, somehow torn between pride at being Minnie's favorite, and shame for having disappointed her so badly.

"I'm not supposed to have favorites, Potter," she said gently, "But sometimes it is simply impossible to be around a particular person and keep an unbiased opinion of them. Especially when that person has proven to be of great moral fiber."

James flushed.

"I will say it does not pain me to be informed that you've received an Incomplete for your N.E.W.T. in Defense Against the Dark Arts... but I also cannot lie and say that I am in any way ashamed of your reason why."

James looked up.

McGonagall shook her head sadly, "Why do none of my favorite students have proper N.E.W.T. scores?" she wondered.

James felt a twinge, remembering suddenly that it had been the night of the NEWTS that Derek Bell had left to fight the Death Eaters who had killed him, fighting for the very same cause that James had now declared his allegiance to. His stomach turned.

"What now, Professor?"

"Well, Mr. Potter, without the NEWT for Defense, unfortunately you will not be able to enroll in the Auror Training Program with the Ministry for Magic."

James's voice was sad but resigned. "I assumed as much."

"However, in the strictest confidence," McGonagall's voice lilted upward and James looked up at her. "This very morning, Albus received word that the Ministry's training program has been... compromised."

"Compromised?"

"The Head of Magical Law Enforcement, a man named Bartemius Crouch, has hired a new Headmaster at the Auror Training Center in London, a man who Albus has long suspected as a potential spy for You Know Who." McGonagall looked quite irritated by the very thought. "As a result, Albus is in great need of as many aurors as possible to be enrolled so that we know exactly who is on our side."

James held his breath.

"Which means, Mr. Potter," she stood up and opened her desk drawer, withdrawing a parchment from within, "That as much as I am against the very thought of my favorite student being purposely put into very grave danger... We simply must be sure that you pass the NEWT for Defense." She held out the parchment and pointed to the corner of the room, where the desk James had often served detention at over the years stood silently waiting. "You have thirty minutes."