"Professor Potter"

(I think I'll just leave this here...)

Harry paced nervously in his new office at Hogwarts, the office that had belonged to so many other Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers before him, including more than a few that had turned out to be evil, and all of whom (with the possible exception of Dolores Umbridge, whom Harry had lost track of some time ago,) were now dead.

He hadn't offered up his services for the position, but McGonagall- no, Harry reminded himself, he was now allowed to call her Minerva, or as he preferred it, Headmistress, but on second thought, maybe he would just stick with calling her McGonagall,- had asked him very specifically to take the position.

"Harry, you are by far the best man for the job. What you did in your fifth year alone, forming that club- what was it called, again? Ah, yes, 'Dumbledore's Army,' right under that horrid woman Umbridge's nose would be cause enough, but you have actually fought the most powerful dark wizard of our time and vanquished him. You're more than qualified to teach, although you never did complete that seventh year of school like Miss Gran- er, I mean, your friend Hermione did." Harry could still hear the headmistress saying, and he grinned.

"This is going to be so awesome," he muttered to himself, then jumped as he heard the sounds of students muttering and talking amongst themselves on the other side of his office door as they took their seats in his new classroom.

Taking a deep, steadying breath to calm himself, Harry opened the door to face the first year students.

"Right then!" He shouted above the hubbub, and instantly the room silenced. Harry looked down to the desks below and was faced with a sea of young faces, some eager-eyed, some rather fearful-looking, and some obviously bored already. "Sit down, all of you."

They sat.

Harry smiled, recalling that first meeting of the DA, when it had felt so strange to be ordering his friends around and even stranger to see them obeying him, but now it felt almost natural.

"I guess all of you bought the books I said you'd need? Ah, good. 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone' for you first years, written by my ghost writer Gilderoy Lockhart. Oh, and that old Defense Against the Dark Arts theory textbook. That's actually the same textbook that I had when I was a first year. Man, it seems like so long ago..."

"Isn't it a bit narcissistic of you to make us buy your own book?" Called out a voice. Harry searched the sea of faces for the one who had spoken until his bottle-green eyes came to a rest on a blond Slytherin boy that he thought he recognized, if vaguely.

"And you are?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow and brushing his bangs away from his scar.

"Scorpius Malfoy, Professor." the Slytherin answered.

"Oh. I thought you might be." Harry smirked, though to himself. "Well, Mr. Malfoy, that book, if any of you have actually looked through it, contains an account of exactly what it's like to be your age and fighting evil. The appendix has a list of every spell my friends and I used to get through those trials set by the teachers at the time. Pathetic, really, that a bunch of eleven-year-olds could do that so easily." Harry went misty-eyed at the memory.

"That doesn't answer my question, Professor." Scorpius insisted, and Harry was brought back down to earth.

"Oh, right. You had some sort of idiotic question. Well, You bought them because they're good for you to read. And five points from Slytherin for your insubordinate tone, Malfoy."

Scorpius was agape with silent fury, but he had the sense to remain quiet.

"Now then, when I defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort in my first year of school..."

"Dad," a familiar voice suddenly interrupted. Harry looked about, somewhat surprised by the interjection, to see James Potter, Harry's eldest son, seated a few seats away from Scorpius Malfoy.

Maybe I ought to have taken roll before I started class. Harry thought to himself, and attempted to smile, though James' tone was just as insubordinate as Scorpius Malfoy's had been, if not more so.

"What is it, James?" Harry asked his son warily.

"You're not just going to spend this class talking about all the stuff you did when you were our age, are you?"

There was a tense pause as Harry considered how to answer that question. "Well..." He began, trying to formulate a proper response.

"Dad!" James snapped. "I want to learn spells, not listen to you talk about stuff that happened ages ago! We have Professor Binns for that!"

Harry was silent for a few more moments while James glared at him.

"James, answer a question for me. Who is the professor here?"

James scowled and looked away. "You, dad." He muttered.

"As long as you remember that I'm the one who decides what I teach, I'll let you off with a warning." Harry nodded sagely.

This was too much for Scorpius Malfoy, who shot up out of his seat, full of justified rage. "Hey, why does he get off with a warning and I lose five house points? That's not fair!"

There was a general murmur of agreement, which Harry silenced with a sweeping glare.

"Well, he's got a point, Professor." Piped up a timid-looking Gryffindor girl.

Harry looked at the sea of young faces once more, and realized that this was going to be a long year.

Headmistress Minerva McGonagall looked up from her neatly organized desk to see Harry Potter, out of breath and apparently on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"What is it, Potter?" She asked austerely.

"Professor McGonagall..." Harry panted, trying to articulate his thoughts adequately. "I... I can't do it. I want out."

Minerva frowned and glared at him. "Absolutely not, Potter." She barked, and looked back at her work, but Harry wasn't done.

"But Professor, why?" Harry asked desperately.

"Because you need to wait until the end of the year like all the other Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers did. It's in your contract."

Harry hung his head miserably.

This really was going to be a long year.