AN: Sorry for the delay, guys. Things have been a bit hectic around here, with a move and some computer restrictions. My posts from here on out may be a bit sporadic as I'm not sure when I'll get to have a computer next. Sorry.

Anyhow, here's your next chapter. Enjoy!

A Tale Untold

Chapter Four

The next morning, Hermione made it to breakfast on time, and relatively unscathed. She'd had a minor run in with Peeves on her way down to the Great Hall, but reminding him that she was staff now seemed to do the trick. With Cassidy trailing behind her and a headache pounding in her head, she entered the Great Hall and sat next to Neville, who looked to be in a state quite similar to hers. Procuring two small vials from her pocket, she set one in front of Neville and uncorked one for herself.

"Oh, bless you," Neville groaned, cringing as he uncorked the bottle, threw his head back, and took the small amount of potion as if it were a shot of tequila. Hermione mirrored his actions, grateful for the instant relief of the pounding headache caused by her hangover.

"So, first day of classes, eh?" Neville asked, chipper once again. "Who do you have first?"

Hermione groaned. "Seventh years."

"Oh, no," Neville said, "That should be interesting."

"No doubt," Hermione replied. The Seventh years were notorious for heckling new professors. Three times they'd even managed to get a professor to quit. Even during Hermione's "eighth" year, her class had succeeded in getting not one, not two, but three Defense Against the Dark Arts professors to quit – in a single semester. To say Hermione was worried would be accurate.

"I'm sure you'll be fine," Neville supplied reassuringly before unceremoniously shoving a forkful of eggs and bacon into his mouth. "Hey, who is Cassidy going to stay with? I have my first two periods off, if you need me."

Hermione's mouth dropped open, her eyes grew wide, and her fork clanged against the rims of her plate. She'd completely forgotten about her daughter. It was an odd and uncomfortable realization.

"Ummm…Yeah, if you could take her that'd be great! I can send a house-elf to escort her back before third hour," she accepted gratefully.

"No problem."

The rest of breakfast passed with the typical playful chatter of the two old friends. Jokes were made, food was eaten, and lives and future plans were talked of. When the bell rang dismissing students to first hour, Hermione gave Cassidy a quick kiss, thanked Neville for watching her, and bolted to her classroom. She arrived at the door a few moments after the tardy bell.

With everyone already in the classroom, Hermione had the advantage of being able to slip in discreetly and observe the students. The surprisingly large group of seventh year students were wondered around the large classroom staring at the new layout and equipment in amazement. Hermione understood; there hadn't been a classroom quite like this before. It was unusual for the students.

Hermione waited patiently to see if someone noticed her. This was a test in their observation skills. So far, none had passed. She'd decided ahead of time that she needed to know just how much actual training they had had. When ten minutes passed, Hermione had her answer: little to none.

"Alright, floor it!" she called from her niche in the back of the room. The entirety of the class jumped. Heads swiveled to stare at her, unsure of how to respond.

"Sit. Down," she said as if she were speaking to a group of imbeciles. Which, on first impression, they seemed to be. Hermione leaned against a small table and watched as the teens lowered themselves to the mats hesitantly.

"Does anyone know how long I've been in here?" she asked, hoping that someone had noticed her but chosen not to say anything. The room remained deadly silent. She sighed, "Just as I expected. No one noticed that I slipped into to room almost fifteen minutes ago. Tell me, what is Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

"Defense Against the Dark Arts is a course for learning theoretical defense against Dark magic that one will most likely never need or use." The voice drew Hermione's gaze to a very smug looking girl seated towards the front. Hermione eyed her carefully, sizing up the respondent.

"A Ministry textbook definition Ms…?"

"Ridgewood, Professor. Avery Ridgewood," she offered proudly.

"Well, Ms. Ridgewood, I'm very sorry to tell you that you're almost completely wrong," Hermione said. The smug, pretentious look on Avery's face slowly melted away.

"B-but…That's what Professor Criache taught us!" she argued vehemently.

"Yes, well, I believe Professor Criache fled the country upon threat of the War. In my opinion, that makes her unqualified to teach the subject. The only reason she got the job was that she was the only applicant," Hermione kept her voice smooth and indifferent; being able to suppress emotions – such as the irritation she was currently feeling towards her predecessor – had been a side factor of becoming involved in the War. "Anyhow, that definition is wrong. Can anyone tell me why?"

No hands raised. Not even a muffled voice spoke.

"No one?" She asked, "Fine. I'll simply have to tell you myself.

"Miss Ridgewood's definition is inaccurate because the class is not a theoretical study. It is not for potential, improbable situations. It is a practicum course for future problems that will undoubtedly occur. Give me a show of hands of how many of you were affected by the 'Blood War.'" Every hand went up. "Now, how many of you know, or knew, someone that was hurt or killed because they didn't know how to properly defend themselves?" All of the hands stayed in the air.

"You can put your hands down now. The point I'm trying to make is that far less people – far less of your friends, your family – would have died if DADA had been practicum throughout their years at Hogwarts. In fact, a great deal of them probably had no idea how to actually set the wards or cast the spells that they were simply told about. DADA is not a theory class. Yet because the Ministry decided it was, millions of innocent people died."

A heavy silence floated in the room, and Hermione knew she had made her point. After allowing the thought to settle for a few moments, Hermione began handing out syllabi.

"This class, from now until I leave will be hands on from third year and on. Face it – first and second year magic is simply too unstable to allow in a combat situation. You will each be assigned a number. This number will be your lifeline: it will represent which armor and weapons you're to use. Yes, that's right, I said 'weapons.'

"Let me start off by saying this: I will be teaching you how to wield these weapons in an effective, and sometimes deadly, manner. I will also be teaching you how to defend yourself from them. That being said, should I see any actual harm or threatening occurring, I will have you expelled before you can say 'I was just joking!' This is a serious class, despite whatever pre-conceived notions you've gained in the past seven years. You must be mature when handling weapons, armors, and even yourselves. People could end up hurt if you so much as think about playing around.

"No, I don't want to come across as a hardass, but I feel I need to be honest with you. In class, I will not - no, cannot – deal with all the damn drama. Don't look at me like that. I was in your shoes not too long ago, if you recall. I know how easy it is to simply bitch at a teacher or a friend on a rough day. I'm fine with it. You want to bitch at me, you are more than welcome to. But not in here. Many days, this is going to be a combat zone. You don't want to be responsible for a puncture wound because you were screaming at one another and got distracted. Save the drama for after class or I'll report you as a potential threat. So, please, for the love of Merlin – and what little is left of my sanity – don't make me do paperwork. I loathe paperwork."

A nervous chuckle arose, and Hermione smiled.

"So, we understand each other then? Good. Now onto business."

Hermione's speech repeated several times throughout the day, with her only brief respite being lunch, during which she ate a bowl of soup and a small salad. She loved the food at Hogwarts. The elves truly were magnificent chefs.

After lunch, she had a double hour with first year Ravenclaws and Slytherins. That was terrible. While they knew some of the book learning required, spells and hexes were not a strong suit, or rather any suit at all. By the end of the day she found herself exasperated and sorely disappointed in the teaching that had been done before her arrival. Finally the day ended and Hermione was able to sit at her desk and relax.

The newly inaugurated professor slumped back into the chair in the office of her quarters. She had barely had a moment to enjoy the peace and quiet when the door slammed open mere seconds later.

"Mum! Mum!" Cassidy bounced into the room with all the energy of an excited seven year old. She was followed by a huffing and puffing Neville Longbottom, who had owled Hermione asking if he could just keep her for the rest of the day because she was an "excellent assistant."

"Hey, little girl," Hermione greeted her daughter with a quick kiss on the forehead. "Did you have fun with Uncle Neville today?"

"Of course, Mum. I'm at Hogwarts. Guess what?!"

"What?"

"Madame Pince said she would let me check out two books at a time. Can I go get two now?"

"Oh, I suppose," Hermione said reluctantly, "Take Mitzy with you, though, and don't disrupt the library!" Cassidy bolted from the room in a run. Neville chuckled. Turning to him, she asked, "She wasn't too much trouble was she?"

"She was fine until she started running up here to ask you if she could go to the library," Neville said, finally having caught his breath.

"I'm sorry," Hermione apologized with a smile. "She does get excited by books."

"I notice. I suppose the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

Hermione rose from her desk and led him into the kitchen. "I'm going to make some coffee. Would you like some?"

"If there is one thing this job has taught me, it is to never turn down coffee when it is offered. Otherwise, you end up fainting from sheer exhaustion in the greenhouse on the fifth day you've worked here." Neville chuckled at the thought of that day. He hadn't gotten enough sleep due to patrolling nor had he grown fond of coffee, so before his first class, he'd chosen to take a nap under one of the empty tables. He had awoken to a group of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff first years prodding him with their wands.

"So I'm to take that as a yes?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, then took a cup of coffee as it was offered to him.

The pair leaned against the counters in her kitchen, sipping their coffee and talking. "So how was your first day?" Neville asked.

Hermione groaned. "Neville, I don't know what that useless woman was teaching them! They know nothing of true defense or the value of it. When those seventh years are forced into the real world next year, they're going to be incapable of defending themselves should the situation arise! They're all going to get killed by either a creature or by thieves and people who still believe the War hasn't been won yet. I don't know if I'm going to be able to train them enough to be prepared for that. I don't know where to start either. I almost feel like I have to start over with the basics, but I know that there simply isn't enough time for that."

"I know," Neville replied sympathetically. "Criache was a nitwit, and one of the stupider ones, too, if that makes any sense. The only reason she got hired was that she was the only applicant, though I'm sure McGonagall already told you that. The 'curse' from our school years is believed to still be in effect. It still scares people off."

"You're joking!"

"I wish I was. You, of all people, should know that the people are merely sheep. They follow whatever voice bleats the loudest. And right now, that voice is the one shouting 'Curse! Curse!'"

"To think," she said, "that after all these years, people still have the same superstitions and feelings about the job. People are idiots."

"Oh, yes. Yes, they are," he agreed.

Half an hour later, empty coffee cups were in the sink and the pair were sitting opposite each other on the sofa when a heavy knock boomed from the front door.

"Come in!" Hermione called, far too lazy to actually answer it. The door remained closed and a few minutes later another knock came. Hermione called again, louder this time.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

"Oh, for goodness sake!" Hermione was slightly peeved now. She stood up and crossed the plushy rug to the large front door. The knocking repeated yet again as her small hand reached for the brass doorknob and turned, yanking the heavy door open in a fit of irritation. Annoyance was evident on her face. "I said come…"

"I didn't think it would be right, considering."

Hermione froze. She simply couldn't believe what – no, who – she was seeing. It was an illusion, she told herself. It wasn't real. This wasn't happening. Not yet. Not here. Not now. Her heart went into overdrive, beating rapidly in her chest as if it were trying to gain enough momentum to simply burst through her ribcage. Her head was spinning. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth hung wide open. Her feet were rooted to the spot. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

"Well, 'Mione. Aren't you going to invite me in? Or have the past eight years made you socially inept?" The intruder smirked slightly, amused by his own jeer at her as well as her stunned expression. She couldn't respond. She simply stood there, staring.

One word breathed out, a whisper.

"Harry…"

AN: I know, I know. That was kind of cruel. Still, you'll have to wait until next time.