Revelations of Love - Moment by Moment Book #3 (Harry Potter, Drarry)

Report

Harry put down his quill and took another deep breath; he'd been trying to write this damn report for what seemed like hours, and he was alternating between acute embarrassment and wondering if a cold shower would cool the effect the recollections were having on his body. He was trying to be clinical, to assess the memories for information that his superior would consider relevant, but his mind kept wandering off the words on the page into memory or considerations of how the contents would be received. This time it was memories which had brought a flush to his cheeks and a throb to his groin, and he had backed off from the thoughts of the shape-changer Draco had become before the effects grew any stronger.

The young man grabbed for the current of many iced glasses of water Poppy had discretely been providing for him after noticing his discomfort during a brief visit to collect his abandoned lunch tray; it wasn't total immersion, but it did refresh, and Harry splashed a few fingers of chilly droplets into his face. However, some of the rain fell on his parchment, and with a growl, the Auror grabbed for his blotter as some of his words began to smudge.

Harry lifted the blotter and growled again. He glared down at a mess that he'd created, five hard written lines were now running in to each other. His temper snapped, and the young man grabbed at the damaged page. Total hatred of what the parchment meant came out in an almighty yell, and with very little coordination or control, Harry ripped at the paper. The sound was very satisfying, and he carried on tearing until there were little bits all over the table. Breathing hard, the wizard stared at his handiwork, and slowly it dawned on him what he'd done. He felt like banging his head against the wall, but instead, he laughed. There wasn't anything funny about having destroyed the best part of an hour's work (he'd nearly finished that page), but it was that or burst into tears.

Tired, frustrated, and feeling the burden of his position, Harry stood up and walked away from the desk before he did even more damage. He pulled off his glasses and threw himself face down on the bed and pulled the pillow over his head. Like that, Harry would have sulked for as long as his conscience allowed, which at the moment was quite a while, but a knock on the door disturbed his grump a few minutes in. The sound was a long way away, through two layers of feather pillows by this time, and the young man took a few seconds to respond; thus, when he extricated his head from his own little world, his visitor had entered. Minerva regarded her friend from the door, concern and surprise on her face.

"Harry are you ill, do you require a headache powder?" the woman asked.

"No, just an off-switch for my hormones," he complained and then realised what he had said; he felt his face colour, it was becoming a very familiar feeling, and he dropped his gaze.

However, it appeared that Minerva McGonagall was having none of it, because she addressed the subject directly with, "Harry, My Dear, you never were one to beat around the bush, but I believe that I would class that admission as, now how does Hermione say it, T.M.I.?"

Harry shoved on his glasses and his companion came into focus, her face echoing the dry humour which her voice was expressing. He regarded her sheepishly for a moment, and then moaned, "I hate this report."

"As I recall, you always did object to essays," the woman observed lightly, coming further in to the room; however she straightened as she realised her humour was failing to lift her friend's spirit.

"Would you like to talk about it?" she asked more protectively.

Harry nodded, although he really didn't know what he was going to say. He pulled his legs up under himself on the mattress and waited as Minerva sat down in the bedside seat. She looked enquiringly across at him, waiting for whatever he was about to say, but the young man was struggling to express the frustration he was feeling. His succinct opinion on the report was the only idea that made any sense, and, uncomfortably, he just let his confusion show. McGonagall could be wonderful sometimes, in a private moment between mentor and mentee, she had once attributed her insights to having spent many years tutoring adolescent boys, the girls she said were much more talkative, and the professor read her comrade's disquiet with ease.