There were two signs by the fire place in the common room, advising everyone that Dean Thomas was doing one of his famous pastels, and that the area and model should not be disturbed. It was March of Dean's First Year at Hogwarts, and everyone knew by now that you didn't want to disturb the artist at work. It wasn't because he got mad, or anything like that. It was because he did such a good job that you didn't want to be that one person who ruined a master work.

It was a late Friday Night, and the fire place had been stoked into flames, providing the primary lighting to the room. A couple of lights had been repositioned to cast differently that usual, but it was the warm orange glow from the fire that allowed Percy Weasley to see the model clear and untainted by the preconceptions that he'd had the moment that the boy had entered Hogwarts.

Dean's subject was sitting with his back mostly towards the fire, his arms crossed on the top of his bent knees, only wearing a pair of gray briefs that seemed to be too big on him. He had messy black hair, and wore a pair of black plastic glasses. The boy's pale white skin seemed to have been oiled to help with the reflection of the light. But all that was not what entranced Percy.

The light of the flames cast shadow of over a back that seemed to be covered with scars. Percy had no experience with scars like these. He didn't know what caused the long stripes with raised edges. He didn't know what caused the puckered circles, nor the curved stripes. It didn't come totally cold to Percy. As a prefect he was aware that Harry had been abused, but somehow seeing the scars was different.

When Percy had heard that the Boy-Who-Lived had been not treated well by his family, something that he found inconceivable. He'd been the person who Hermione had sent to summon Professor McGonagall. He'd known that Professor McGonagall had gone on the Hogwarts Express with Harry for Christmas to report what had happened, but it just hadn't sunk in that Harry Potter had been abused, no beaten, by his family.

The idea that the Boy-Who-Lived, the hero of the wizarding world, the only one ever to survive the killing curse, could be beaten by his family shattered Percy's world view. He was a hero, seen to be the perfect little wizard. There were stories and adventures written about him. He always seemed so humble and accepting, eager to explore Hogwarts and what the wizarding world was like. That was apparently a front, a facade created by the wizarding world that Harry Potter had slipped into, taking what was given to him, no more.

Harry Potter was not the Boy-Who-Live of myth and legend. He was not what everyone projected upon him. He was a young scarred and beaten little boy, sitting by the fire so he could enjoy the heat of the fire on his scarred back. He was a little boy, seeking out acceptance, affection, and love. Percy could see that now.

He didn't think he could unsee it, actually. The image of the nearly naked boy, his scars bared to be seen in the dim light of the fire, it seemed to be burned into Percy's mind. He didn't want to forget it either. The idea that he would forget those scars, to see Harry Potter as a fiction, someone else's view of the Boy-Who-Lived should be, that was an idea that he found abhorrent.

Percy moved around, finding a different view, but not impeding either Thomas's view, or his light. He had to commit to memory these scars. He had to remember that family was not always there for you, that family could hurt you, in ways that he'd never considered. He had to remember that what the world saw was not always what was there underneath. As he looked at Harry's scars, everything he'd heard and believed about the boy, about the world he lived in, was cast in a new light.

No longer was everything sweet and light. No longer was everything black and white. Everything suddenly was in shades of gray. The technicolor world was now dull, slowly desaturating. The pure expanses were covered with scars.

Oliver Wood sat back in the corner with a bottle of butter beer that he'd brought back from the last Hogsmeade weekend. Normally he'd be working on Quidditch plays, or working on his homework. He couldn't think of Quidditch at the moment. He'd seen the scars.

All of his players, in fact there was a good chance that it was actually all of Gryffindor, would not believe that Oliver Wood was finding it hard to think about Quidditch. His mind was on those scars. Across the room in the flickering light of the fire, sat Harry Potter, sitting there calmly as Dean Thomas drew his scars. This was the boy that had change fate. It was the boy that he'd pinned so many hopes on.

Those scars, they grew over his vision of Quidditch glory. It gave him pause to make him think not of the Quidditch player, the seeker who had turned Gryffindor's chances around, but the boy. Not the boy who lived, but Harry Potter. Everyone seemed to expect Harry Potter to fill their needs, to be the hero, to come out ahead. They never thought about the scars. They never thought of the results of being the hero. Heroes were often beaten and battered as they went through to become a hero, yet everyone saw the hero as untouched as they proclaimed their victory.

It was an image, an illusion to the masses. Oliver knew that. It took a lot of hard work to be the best possible Keeper and Captain for the Gryffindor Quiditch team. There were a lot of broken limbs and scrapes on the Quidditch pitch, even a few ripped outfits. And not the ripped outfits that made the covers of books and newspapers. Oliver didn't know why he hadn't known that it applied outside of Quidditch, that heroes paid a heavy price.

Right now, he couldn't look away from those scars. He couldn't – the image of the hero was gone, and would never return. The image of the boy who kept trying, kept trying to be what was expected of him, what others projected upon him, despite the obstacles, despite the scars was replacing it. The image of the small, almost insignificant boy who stood up, who would not stop, no matter what happened was replacing it.

He saw the boy with scars, sitting in the reflected flames, the light flashing though the lenses of his broken and mended glasses. He didn't see the prefect Boy-Who-Lived. In the flickering light of the fire, he saw Harry Potter with all his scars.

Minerva McGonagall was aware of Harry Potter's scars. She was aware that the world was not all sunshine and daisies. A long life had left its own scars on her view of the world. She did not need to look at Harry Potter's scars. She had looked, and knew the cruelity that had been laid upon his back.

No one noticed her in the Gryffindor Common Room, not in her current form. No one noticed the cat. It was one of her ways to look in on her Gryffindors, without being too intrusive. At first she'd watched the other students react to Harry and his scars, noticing the expressions on their faces, and cataloging which students might need a few words, and who might be best to deliver them. Minerva had learned from long practice that sometimes she just wasn't the right person to handle everything.

Albus had told her when she became head of Gryffindor that invisibility was a great skill. Being the cat was better, in her opinion. She slid up against the side of the sofa, and looked around the corner at Harry Potter, not at his back, but at his face.

You could not spend hours smiling, and Minerva didn't expect to see Harry smiling. No, in the flickering light of the fire she saw the thin straight line of determination. This was a boy who had accepted a task and was going to carry it through. She'd seen that expression on Harry before, but somehow, here in the golden light of the fire, she saw it clearer. The light glinted off his glasses frames, those deep eyes behind them filled with a heart that had been tried and found to be unwavering, a steady hand on the tiller in a sea of troubles..

This was a boy, young, but with an indefatigable spirit that could have been, should have been, ground beneath the weight of the world. Minerva had seen many a child that had, children who could not live with what life had given them. It had often been her task to bear them up, to become the lion to which they were destined to be. Success was never guaranteed but it was a duty that the Head of Gryffindor could not pass up.

She would not stop lifting up the lion that she saw reflected in Harry Potter's face, the flames of the fire like a mane around his face. No lion stood alone, he needed his pride, his mentors and friends. Minerva hoped that some day that Harry would count her as one of them, but if he didn't, that was fine, as long as her lion, her seeker became the man she had seen glimpses of. He was not the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry Potter was not a child. Life had made him grow up all to fast.

No, Harry Potter was something special, that one person in a generation who had the weight of the world shoved onto his shoulders, but did no crumble and protest. No, Harry took on that load, and asked if he could help with more. Despite what he'd seen, he still grasped out for the love he seemed to know was still out there. She will have to remind him that it was for him, too, but knew that he'd give it freely.

Dean was putting up his artist tools, so Minerva moved forward. She moved to rub against his legs, and found Harry's hands lowering to rub against the cat's back and tail. His hands began to pet her, and Minerva began to purr. Soon she was in his lap, letting Harry draw comfort from her cat form. She knew that tonight, the mindless petting and the sound of her purring would let loose the troubles that weighed on the soul of the Gryffindor.

Minerva could not do anything about the scars that covered Harry Potter's back and his soul, but she knew that a moment of peace here and there, was exactly what he needed. He closed his eyes, and thin straight line was gone, his lips curled upwards and slightly parted. Minerva purred her delight in that smile.

Author's Note: This story is in the Ritual series, but I felt it had more impact if you didn't know that until the end. For background, and what Minerva McGonagall did, see:

Ritually Yours
Summer Rituals

... and other side stories marked as such.