Thanks a million to Ichangedmynane99 for such a good prompt!

The last of the day's light spilled through Professor McGonagall's office window. With a grin that made her feel like a schoolgirl, she carefully opened a thin desk drawer, pulling it out as far as it will go. Hidden in the back was a single pack of Mayfairs. She took it and exhaled a long sigh.

McGonagall lifted and shook her box. Oh, how she had been looking forward to this cigarette. From the moment she'd seen Albus Dumbledore levitating a stretcher carrying an unconscious Harry Potter, the urge to smoke had been as strong as it ever had been before.

She took a seat in her armchair and stretched out her long legs. With her thumb, she opened the box and then carefully removed a fag, savoring every moment of anticipation. When what should she hear but a thump, thump on her door.

"Damn," she thought.

Technically, McGonagall was on duty until 12:00 the following day or until every last student was safely aboard the train back to London.

"Come in," she called, as she snapped her fingers to open the door..

Who should stumble in, but Harry Fricken Potter.

In the subtle light around her quarters, Potter looked thin and pale. Slowly, he shifted his weight; He did not meet her eyes. McGonagall took a drag on her cigarette eyeing her young charge. The level of nervousness he displayed befit Longbottom, or perhaps Ronald Weasley, or even Granger, if the girl thought she had made an error on a homework assignment, but after a year of observing Harry Potter, she had never seen him look so frightened.

McGonagall placed her unlit cigarette on a stone ashtray.

"Potter, what's wrong?"

"My aunt and uncle," he whispered. "I won't go back to them. I won't," The boy had spoken so low, that she could barely hear him.

"Take a seat, Potter," she said, tilting her head to force Harry to meet her eyes.

Harry looked so much like James and he had Lily's bright green eyes. Yet, in that moment, McGonagall was reminded of a young Severus Snape, before he had learned to hide his feelings.

Despite her order, Harry stayed stock-still. Professor McGonagall suppressed an involuntary sigh.

Suddenly, Harry lifted his head and glared at her, his eyes glittering. Then, faster than you could say quidditch, Harry reached for the collar of his robes, and rapidly ripped them off, removing them before her eyes.

"Potter, stop! What are you doing?" cried McGonagall.

Potter shook like mad but didn't stop, and began grabbing at his shirt.

"Potter, stop this instant!" McGonagall hissed.

McGonagall knew not to touch Potter, which could aggravate him further, and as a rule, she would not use spells on students. In her mind, she was already composing a letter to Harry's Aunt and Uncle explaining the importance of modesty and teacher-student boundaries.

It was only when Harry stood before her wearing just his shoes and trousers, with a fierce expression on his face that she began to notice that something was very wrong. Potter's torso was littered with dark-brown burns, roughly the size of a knut.

If over three decades of teaching had taught Professor Minerva McGonagall anything, it was not to react.

Potter looked straight into her eyes, as if to make sure she had seen properly and then he turned his back to her.

Professor McGonagall felt bile rise in her throat. Harry's back was covered with raised lines of flesh, almost like knife wounds.

"Harry," McGonagall said carefully. "You can put your clothes on. I've seen."

Harry was shivering in the dim light.

"There's more," he whispered.

"I know, Potter. But you need to put your clothes on. It's cold in the castle at night."

But it didn't seem like Potter would or could move.

McGonagall reached down, no small feat, at her age, and picked up Harry's shirt and handed it to him.

Reflexively, the boy pulled it over his head and then bent down to grab his jumper. McGonagall picked up the boy's robes and returned them to her student. Harry worried the fabric in his hands. The boy looked petrified, temporarily frozen.

Gently, as McGonagall had had to do time and time again in her tenure as a teacher and head of house, she put her arm around her student and led him to the chair she had just vacated. With a flick of her wand, she lit a small fire in the grate. She placed her hand over Harry's and gave it a small squeeze. Situations like these called for a little mothering. McGonagall walked the length of her office, opened a large trunk and pulled something out. Then she walked towards her desk and picked up her tartan cookie tin. Wordlessly, she sent a patronus to her friend, feeling grateful to have someone who managed to be so skillful at something so challenging but at the same time feeling perplexed that any of this could have been missed.

Returning to Harry, McGonagall draped a small throw blanket over his shoulders. Then picked up the cookie tin and placed it in front of her young student.

"Have a biscuit, Potter."

Numbly, he took a ginger newt and began to nibble it.

"I see you have scars on your front and back," she told him as if she were commenting on the weather. "Please tell me about them."

"I think they're pretty self-explanatory," responded Harry.

Professor McGonagall raised her eyebrows ever so slightly. "Harry, who gave you those scars?"

Instead of answering, Harry said quietly, "Do you remember how after I caught the remembrall, you took me to Flitwick's class and asked if you could 'borrow Wood.'"

"Yes, Potter, I remember."

"I thought Wood was going to be a cane that you would beat me with but you all don't do that here. If you did, I think Fred and George would be black and blue all the time, right?" As he spoke, Harry scratched his neck.

Professor McGonagall gave him a melancholy smile. "Harry, even if we did use corporal punishment, we wouldn't leave our students black and blue."

"Why is that, professor?" Harry's eyes blazed as he looked up at her and she was struck by just how young and innocent he was. Suddenly, she had a flash of a James Potter, the same age, caught out of bed with Sirius Black. If only this could be as simple.

"Many reasons, Potter. We have no desire to illustrate violence as a problem-solving technique. It is also illegal. It is illegal to harm any one of our charges in any way."

Just then, another knock on the door came, and Poppy Pomfrey entered wearing a purple-gray dressing gown and holding a canvas healer's bag.

Harry was glad the nurse had been sent for. He trusted her.

"You called, Minerva?"

"Yes, Poppy. I have Harry Potter here with me. He has shown me terrible scars across his chest and back; He tells me that there are more," answered Professor McGonagall in an even voice.

The space between the matron's eyebrows compressed. "How is this possible? I've seen Potter's body, and the only scar I have ever seen is the one on his forehead." She rubbed the back of her head as she spoke.

"Sometimes, they disappear," Harry answered softly in response.

Madam Pomfrey didn't miss a beat. "Okay, Potter. When did they come back?"

"Just now - I had to show McGonagall before they vanished again."

The two women exchanged glances. "I've heard of this," said McGonagall. "It's rare."

Madam Pomfrey gave a subtle nod.

"Does anything hurt, Potter?" Poppy continued.

"A little," he lied. The boy's voice was hoarse.

The nurse nodded, showing that she had heard.

"Can you walk with me to the Hospital Wing?"

"Yes, ma'am," he answered.

Madam Pomfrey helped the young boy to his feet. Just as McGonagall had moments before, she made to put a gentle arm around the boys. This time, however, the touch felt like fire and he flinched away from her hand.

"They really hurt, don't they?"

Harry nodded and then quietly walked beside her to the Hospital Wing, Professor McGonagall following just behind.