So, really truly, honest to goodness, this is BACK. I am bound and determined! Let's get poor Minerva out of year 3! Your support means worlds to me. I adore you. That's all.

16 October 1993

Nearly forty years of teaching, and somehow Minerva could never remember that third year was always the age where the students started to become… well, strange. Friendships were tested, attentions started to wander to the realms beyond friendship, and that wasn't even accounting for the patently bizarre behaviors that inevitably cropped up around this age.

For example: on this gray October morning, Lavender Brown (who looked inexplicably puffy-eyed and miserable—Minerva made a note to look into it) sat beside Parvati Patil, and they were whispering conspiratorially, casting nasty glares at the back of Hermione Granger's head. Hermione, for her part, was so determinedly focused on her task—copying down notes on Switching Spells—that she didn't notice them, nor did she notice the dirty looks Ron Weasley threw her periodically.

Meanwhile, seated between Granger and Weasley, Harry Potter was gazing blankly into the middle distance, a quill loose in his grasp, looking utterly stranded in a sea of his own thoughts.

Right, then, thought Minerva.

She was caught off-guard when the bell rang, and stood as the third years began their mad scramble to pack up.

"One moment, please!" she called. "As you're all in my House, you should hand Hogsmeade permission forms to me before Halloween." She punctuated this with a stern, sweeping look across the classroom. Dean Thomas, who had frozen in the act of swinging his leg over her seat, wobbled on the spot. Minerva arched an eyebrow. "No form, no visiting the village, so don't forget!"

Neville Longbottom, near the front of the room, put up his hand in the all-too-familiar gesture for which Minerva was strangely grateful.

"Please, Professor," he began, "I—I think I've lost—"

"Your grandmother sent yours to me directly, Longbottom," she told him. "She seemed to think it was safer." Neville blushed, but smiled. Indeed, the form had come back the day after booklists had been sent out in the summer; Minerva could hardly blame Augusta for this and was all too happy to take something off of the boy's mind. It wasn't as though Neville didn't try to remember things, she knew—but it was difficult to do so when his focus was on so many other areas in which he struggled. For some of them, responsibility came with time and practice, and there was no need to punish him for not having enough of those.

She addressed the class once more. "Well, that's all, you may leave." Released, they all resumed their scramble for the door. She began stacking papers at her desk, but shortly became conscious of a presence standing before her. She looked up at Harry over the top of her glasses. Her stomach sank suddenly; she had a shrewd idea of what this would be about.

"Yes, Potter?"

He took a deep breath, looking anxious. "Professor, my aunt and uncle—er—forgot to sign my form."

In spite of herself, Minerva felt her teeth clench. Forgot, did they?

She said nothing.

Harry stammered, "So—er—d'you think it would be all right—I mean, will it be okay if I—if I go to Hogsmeade?"

Minerva found herself suddenly wrestling with a burning sense of injustice at the Dursleys and their apparently limitless disregard for their nephew, as well as her overwhelming desire to keep Potter safe at all costs, regardless of what Albus thought—not only from Black, but from the dementors who clearly affected him deeply. To give herself some time, she picked up the essays on her desk and started to alphabetize them.

When she felt she had come up with the best possible response, she spoke. "I'm afraid not, Potter. You heard what I said. No form, no visiting the village. That's the rule."

This sounded unjust and limp, even to her own ears.

Harry's jaw dropped, and Ron Weasley, who was standing a little way behind him, looked furious. "But—Professor, my aunt and uncle—you know, they're Muggles, they don't really understand about—about Hogwarts forms and stuff," said Harry. "If you said I could go—"

"But I don't say so," Minerva straightened up and dropped the papers into her drawer, feeling traitorous as her disparate instincts grappled inside her chest. "The form clearly states that the parent or guardian must give permission." She paused and met his eyes, half-wanting to march him straight to Dumbledore to hear the truth, to be told why she had to be so unreasonable about this—Merlin knew he was hardly the first student she'd had without a proper parent or guardian to sign a permission form, after all, and Potter wasn't stupid enough to believe he was. She swallowed. "I'm sorry, Potter, but that's my final word. You had better hurry, or you'll be late for your next lesson."

Ron, still a few rows back, looked indignant, while Hermione, who was lingering at the back of the classroom, looked regretful. Harry, however, was staring up at her in acceptant dismay. "All right. Thanks, Professor," he mumbled, shouldering his schoolbag and starting to trudge away.

Minerva now felt the pull of guilt in her stomach as the second bell rang, but waited until Potter and his friends were gone before she went to open the classroom door for the fifth years.