"Mr. Potter." "Hmm." A shuffling of papers. Not parchment. "Would you be so willing to explain to me all that took place 2 days ago?" A pause. Refusing to look this woman in the face. Not when no one has ever cared before. No one. "Harry...", softly and sweet. Like she cared. Like he suddenly mattered after years of being ignored and looked over. "I really don't know miss." He didn't dare look at her. He heard her lean back. A soft sigh. Only Mrs. Weasely was ever soft with him. But not good soft. Suffocating overbearing soft. Fall into the couch and it's hard to get up and out soft. This was new and he worried. What was he to say? To do? "I'll help you Harold Jameson Potter. I will." And he wanted to cry. But he didn't. 'A muggle can't help me now.' She didn't know that.