The new DADA teacher is a witch who wears a striped Gryffindor jumper at the staff table. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun on top of her head, raven curls glossy and round spectacles reflecting candlelight and there's clearly a wand-holster attached to her left arm. Students watch as she talks to the Headmaster and Madam Hooch enthusiastically, grinning toothily.

At the Gryffindor table, emptying out his shoe of water, Harry leans closer to his friends. "She looks decent enough, I suppose."

"That's an alumni jumper," Ron replies, enthusiasm only slightly dampened by how soaked he is. "She must have been on the team! What position do you think she played?"

"Honestly, is quidditch all you care about?" Hermione rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "You would think she'd be encouraged not to show favouritism. She isn't even wearing robes."

"I think they're on her seat," Harry points out, seeing the tell-tale sign of fabric over the back of her chair. The funny thing is though, her robes don't look much like robes.

"That's a jacket," Hermione corrects.

"Huh," Harry ponders that, peering at her across the hall. Her skin is the same colour as his own – brown, like caramel, remarkable similar in shade – and they even have the same type of glasses. Harry swears, as he looks harder, that she even has the same colour of eyes.

Madam Hooch, standing between her chair and the Headmaster's, nods suddenly, standing up straight. Harry sees her yellow eyes flash around the room, pausing every so often. She even looks at him, head dipping in greeting. Harry does the same, looking along the staff table as he does. At the far end on a pile of cushions sits Professor Flitwick, their half-goblin charms teacher, who looks to be rather absorbed with a book. Next along the table are the teachers Harry knows to be Hermione's arithmancy and ancient runes professors, Professor Vector and Professor Babbling. Beside them, the professors Sprout and Sinistra, their herbology and astronomy teachers, are stuck in conversation.

To their right sits Harry's most hated teacher, Severus Snape. He looks balefully over the hall, wand flashing with blue briefly to stop an altercation between Slytherins and Ravenclaws sitting near where the first-years would be sat, after the Sorting. Then, on Professor Snape's other side is presumably Professor McGonagall's seat, then Albus Dumbledore's.

Their as-yet unnamed Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, the witch in the Gryffindor jumper, claps to herself beside him, clearly quite happy with the conclusion of her conversation – Madam Hooch moving away two seats to sit between Madam Pomfrey and the muggle studies teacher, Professor Burbage, strangely leaving the seat beside the new DADA Professor empty.

Above them, in the enchanted ceiling, the sky crackles with lightning, thunder rolling in the background.

"I could eat a bloody hippogriff," Ron moans, craning his neck to see the closed entrance hall. "Can they hurry up?"

The words are no sooner out of his mouth when Professor McGonagall strides in, followed by the tiny, sopping first-years who seem to have swam across the lake rather than sailed. Events quickly carry on from there, the Sorting Hat singing a different song from last year and a plethora of first-years being Sorted.

Harry nearly breaks his neck when the P section comes around, head snapping up in shock.

"Potter, Edward," Professor McGonagall calls out the name, seeming perturbed. Harry – like many others – moves so he can see the small boy who steps up onto the platform. The resemblance is even more disturbing than the name.

Dark hair, dark skin…Edward Potter smiles though, as he nervously sits down, looking up at the Hat just in time to get a face full. Snorts echo through the Hall, along with muffled laughter before Professor McGonagall corrects the positioning. Edward's eyes close and for a few moments, there's silence.

Behind him, at the staff table, the new DADA Professor leans forwards.

"…HUFFLEPUFF!"

A round of applause comes, though it's subdued. At the staff table, though, the witch in the DADA jumper lets out a shrill whistle, exchanging a set of thumbs up with the boy. Their grins are identical as he takes his place at Hufflepuff table, the new professor's eyes glimmering with unabashed pride.

Harry finds himself out of sorts as the Sorting continues. He keeps looking at the professor and…her son? The resemblance between them in uncanny and Harry almost wishes there was a mirror, so he could look at himself and properly analyse his face. Does he look like that? Do they look like him? Why is that boy named Potter and are they his relatives?

Suddenly, Harry's heart is pounding. Do I have another aunt? He stares at the professor, for the first time in a few years thinking back to the Mirror of Erised, of men and women with knobbly knees and messy black hair. What happened to his father's family? Does he have aunts and uncles out there? Grandparents? Cousins?

"I don't understand," Hermione hisses as the Sorting finishes, her words hidden under a round of applause. "The Potter's all died, right?"

"Supposedly," Ron mumbles, just as confused as Harry. The three exchange glances, before looking up to where Professor Dumbledore now stands, glass clinking.

"I have only two words to say to you all, now," he says, deep voice echoing through the Great Hall, "Tuck in."

Moments later the feast appears, but Harry is far from hungry. His stomach rumbles, though and soon he digs in, briefly forgetting why he was so morose. But it barely takes more than seeing a flash of Hufflepuff yellow to remember his troubles.

"Do you think they could be related to me?" Harry asks his friends tentatively.

"Well, statistically, it's unlikely – think of all the people named John Smith in the world," Hermione says. "But I've found that in the Wizarding World, well…"

"Probably," Ron gives his own answer through a mouthful of potatoes.

Harry barely listens to the ensuing conversations. Nearly-Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, talks about how Peeves made a swimming pool of the kitchens from soup, Hermione becoming appalled at how many house-elves live and work at Hogwarts.

"Slave labour," she says, "That's what made this dinner. Slave labour."

Once dinner and pudding have been swept away, crumbs and all, Dumbledore once more stands and calls everyone to attention.

"So, now that we are all fed and waters, I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices," the Headmaster pronounces with an easy smile. "First of all, Mr Filch, our resident caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle this year has been extended to include screaming yo-yos, fanged frisbees and ever-bashing boomerangs. The fill list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe and can be viewed in Mr Filch's office, if anybody would like to check it."

The corners of Dumbledore's mouth twitch. He continues, "and as ever, I wold like to remind you all that the forest of on the grounds is out-of-bound to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year."

"It is also my duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not be organised the same way this year – in fact, all House teams this year are to be newly arranged entirely."

"What?" Harry gasps, not understanding. Around the room, similar murmurs of confusion reach his years. Harry can see Fred and George looking rather open-mouthed further back down the table.

Dumbledore keeps speaking. "These changes will be fully discussed at a later date, but until other matters are arranged, I am afraid that the Quidditch Cup is cancelled."

There is a minor roar in defiance – only for the noise to be fully silenced by the banging of the entrance hall doors.

Shadow looming behind him, the figure holds a cane and Harry is briefly overtaken with a deep sense of foreboding. A flash of lightning illuminates them briefly, foot clunking loudly in the silent hall as the man – and they are a man – walks up to the staff table. Another flash of lightning puts their features into sharp relief and Hermione gasps at the scarred visage it reveals, though Harry is more focused on the clearly magical, spinning eye that moves up, down and around – spinning all the way backwards to show the white.

Dumbledore, when the man reaches the podium, shakes his hand. Harry watches him as he sits down beside the unfamiliar witch, who watches him with trepidation.

"…as I was saying, until further notice, the Quidditch Cup as you know it is cancelled," Dumbledore says, voice sedate. "May I introduce Professors Moody and Potter, who will be working in conjunction with each other to cover both Defence Against the Dark Arts and the newly-revived History of Magic positions."

Hushed whispers immediately spready through the Hall, breaking the silence that Moody had brought. Harry is too shocked to ask Ron whether this Moody is the man that his father went to help this very morning.

"Professor Binns, our resident ghost professor, will be available still," Dumbledore continues after a long moment, eyes twinkling, "though I'm sure you will all take advantage of his new retirement to improve your grades in Professor Potter's class."

Potter. There it is again, Harry thinks, the name like a gong in his head.

"So she's the History of Magic professor?" someone calls out, voice extra-loud to be heard.

Dumbledore inclines his head, "As many of you know, Hogwarts has always had…trouble, keeping it's Defence Professors. This new system will perhaps shed some light on how to avoid such a thing, in the following terms."

More whispers. More hushed murmurs. Harry is still stuck on Professor Potter.

"And now, for my main announcement," Dumbledore says, straightening where he stands. "This year, we are honoured to host a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that this year, Hogwarts will be hosting…"

Dumbledore's smile thins, but his excitement is no less apparent.

"The Triwizard Tournament."


Harry expects to be in either Defence or History when he first runs into Professor Potter. Unexpectedly, however, it is in neither, for when he climbs up the silver ladder into Professor Trelawney's perfumed divination tower, Professor Potter is there, having tea with the batty woman.

"Uh," Harry startles, nearly falling backwards through the trap-door. Only Ron's quick grab of his school uniform stops him from dropping and bringing Lavender down with him.

"Oh! Hello," Professor Potter smiles when she sees them. "Sorry – the professor and I were just discussing todays lesson. She agreed to let me lead a discussion about prophecy."

"Right," Harry mutters, before walking over to a table, sitting down on a chair with a back, leaving Ron and Neville with the low, long pouffe. Harry watches the other Potter as the class fills up, his peers taking their seats and chatting quietly as they wait for the bell to ring.

When it does ring, Professor Trelawney rises, arms reaching outwards.

"Good day to you all!" she says, in an explicably good mood as she motions to Professor Potter. "My inner eye has never been clearer and it is my greatest pleasure to invite a guest to talk of prophecy and how the alignment of stars and planetary luminosity can affect the portents!"

"Thank-you, Professor," Potter touches her elbow, drawing her to her seat. "Hello, class. I'm going to be lecturing you today, seeing as my first-years today are being paired up with a third year Defence class to learn about the magic around Hogwarts, defensive and otherwise. I know you've been studying divination a year now, so you should all know what a prophecy is – but just to be sure, can you raise your hand if you do know?"

Harry slowly raises his hand, along with the rest of the class. He watches her eyes skip over them all, humming. Then, her hand dips into her pocket and she withdraws a crystal ball, wand suddenly twirling in her hand.

"This here is a prophecy, straight from the Department of Mysteries. When a prophecy is made, it is automatically recorded and stored on the shelves. It's old magic – ancient magic, even. The Department of Mysteries in the Ministry of Magic had to transplant the Great Druidic Archive within its depths to both keep the magic running and keep the prophecies safe." She pauses, flashing a grin, "You'll learn more about that in History with me, so keep listening if you want a leg-up on your assignments."

A subtle shift rings through the class. Harry and Ron spare each other a grin, both thinking, Hermione's going to hate this. It's not often that extracurricular lessons overlap with core classes. She'll be irritated that she missed it.

"Prophecies gathered in the Department of Mysteries are protected by many enchantments – many naturally occurring. Do any of you know what those are?"

Parvati puts her hand up, even as Harry blinks over the term naturally occurring. Professor Potter nods to her. "Aren't they types of wards? Ones that- uh, ones that show up when the magic is just right? Like- like, the place and the time?"

"Somewhat. It's tricky to explain," Professor Potter says, tilting her head back and forth. "Naturally-occurring magic is almost impossible to predict, outside of known magical phenomena. For instance, the annual Yule Lights at Stonehenge or the Incan Labirinto de Floresta in Brazil."

Parvati blurts out, "What about the frost snakes from the Himalayas?"

Professor Potter shakes her head in disagreement. "An argument could be made over whether they are a naturally-occurring magical beast or a product of their environment, but Professor Hagrid is the one to ask, not me."

It makes him feel bad, but Harry has to wonder if Hagrid actually knows what 'naturally occurring magical phenomena' is, let alone if Hagrid can answer Parvati's question.

"Around prophecies like these, wards form to protect them. Prophecies are never made by accident or on purpose," Potter lectures, walking closer to the class, showing them the crystal ball. It's small and smoke almost seems to waft around in silence – but even as she walks past them, Harry thinks he sees something or maybe even someone, a whisper brushing through the edge of his hearing. "The stars must be in the right place. The planets must be on the right axis and in one moment, where the heavens are in alignment with Earth, magic sparks. Creation. The powers of an Oracle click, like a puzzle-piece falling into place."

Professor Potter pauses, the moment heavy. "For one moment, all is right and all is wrong. Two moments in time connect, past and future. Those with the prerequisite powers can divine that future from images or whispers – and the more powerful they are, the more consequences. Oracles are so powerful even non-magical folk know of them and have trusted them in days gone by. You are lucky to have Professor Trelawney as your teacher."

"Lucky?" Harry mutters to himself, of the opinion that Professor Trelawney has bats for brains.

"Yes, lucky, Mr Potter," Professor Potter says sharply. Harry flushes, not realising he'd been so loud. Her wand flicks, tapping the prophecy in her hand. Even as they watch, a ghostly image rises from its depths and to Harry's shock, it's Professor Trelawney – and her words are dreadfully familiar.

"THE DARK LORD LIES ALONE AND FRIENDLESS, ABANDONED BY HIS FOLLOWERS. HIS SERVANT HAS BEEN CHAINED THESE TWELVE YEARS. TONIGHT, THE SERVANT WILL BREAK FREE AND SET OUT TO REJOIN HIS MASTER. THE DARK LORD WILL RISE AGAIN WITH HIS SERVANTS AID, GREATER AND MORE TERRIBLE THAN HE EVER WAS. TONIGHT, BEFORE MIDNIGHT, THE SERVANT WILL SET OUT TO REJOIN HIS MASTER…"

Harry leaps to his feet. "How did it know that?" he demands, heart beating wildly.

"As I said," Professor Potter says calmly. "Prophecies are automatically recorded in the Department of Mysteries. I picked this one up myself, to show the class. I saw that you were the witness to your professor's moment as an Oracle."

"I-" Harry stutters, sitting back down abruptly. He avoids looking at his classmates, who look at him with wide eyes.

"There are thousands and thousands of prophecies in the Department of Mysteries. Many will never come true, for no-one ever heard them and the naturally-occurring wards around each copy in the Ministry don't allow those they are not of to touch them." Potter tucks her wand into her holster, tossing the prophecy orb between her hands. "Who here knows about the concept of self-fulfilling prophecies?"

Potter doesn't wait for hands, continuing on even as she deposits the prophecy into Professor Trelawney's grasp, who obviously is quite proud of her achievement. "A self-fulfilling prophecy is a prophecy that has been heard and then acted upon. One example of such is the story of Oedipus – the original motherfucker."

Harry's eyes bug, Ron's mouth dropping open. Professor Potter flashes them a grin before speaking.

"Oedipus is a character from Greek mythos. His father, Laius, was told that his son would kill him one day and so Laius gave Oedipus up for adoption. When Oedipus grew up, he was told the same prophecy. However, Oedipus was unaware of his true origins and so left his foster-parents in hope he would never see them dead. He journeyed across the land and got into a fight with a stranger, whom he killed. He then married his widow, who also happened to be his mother. Oedipus killed his father, just as was prophesised."

"Laius wanted to avoid his son ever killing him," Professor Potter lectures, "but by trying to avoid fate, he made it happen. It is in the nature of human beings to act with knowledge given to them, whether to their interest or detriment. When it comes to prophecies, avoiding something could very well make it true or vice versa. Once a prophecy is known, either it comes to pass or it does not."

Dean raises his hand. "Professor?"

"Yes, Mr Thomas?" Potter queries.

"How do you know what prophecies are true or not?"

"Every prophecy is true," the witch replies in a stately manner. "As soon as they're heard, events are set in motion; and before you ask about the unfulfilled prophecies that 'no-one heard', Oracles don't remember their prophecies. It's why the copies are so important. The druids and shamans of the ancient magical world created the Great Archive in an attempt to gather that knowledge, preserving it where human memory would fail."

"Why, though?" Harry questions, meeting Professor Potter's eyes. As she smiles, he recognises the same emerald green as his own glinting back at him beneath wire spectacles.

"Sometimes, events need to be recognised," Potter states, "for they mean more than they first appear. The prophecy the class just heard, for example – you know what some of it means, yes? Would you like to tell your peers?"

"…not really," Harry says, not knowing why himself. It was about Pettigrew, he figures, but I got distracted when I tried to talk about it. Professor Trelawney didn't remember.

"Professor, if you would allow me?" Potter says to Trelawney, picking up a pile of parchment and dispersing them with her wand at a nod from the older witch. Each piece of parchment flits across the class, landing in front of students. Harry reads it, mind reeling. It seems so simple, written down with the date in the top left-hand corner, but at the same time…it's a terrifying prospect.

Voldemort is going to come back with Pettigrew's help, he thinks.

"Interpretation of prophecies, as exemplified by Laius over Oedipus, is difficult and oft-times prone to mistakes," Professor Potter states. "For the next ten minutes, in groups, I'd like you all to try interpreting this prophecy. Other than those at your tables, no discussion is allowed. I'd like you to try divining whom the prophecy concerns, what timeframe the prophecy discusses and why the prophecy was spoken in the first place."

"But miss, isn't that unfair?" one of the Ravenclaws asks, "You said Harry would know."

"This isn't being marked," she says in return, "After you finish discussing it, you'll compare notes with your classmates. This is for fun as much as it is a lesson. Your interpretation can be outlandish as you want, so long as you think it's realistic…now, get into groups."

Harry and Ron find themselves in a rather large group, considering. Parvati and Lavender squeeze up between Ron and Neville, who barely avoids being pushed off the pouffe as Seamus and Dean bring across their chairs.

"So," Seamus looks at Harry, "what's the prophecy about?"

"Uh…" Harry swallows, chancing it. "Well, it was last year…when Sirius Black was about."

Lavender squeaks, "It's about Black?" Parvati rushes to write down his name on her parchment, but Harry quickly shakes his head.

"No! Sirius- he's innocent, actually. Completely. He was framed."

"Really?" Dean asks, wide-eyed. "Who framed him?"

"Scabbers," Ron mutters, before elaborating as Lavender gives him a weird look. "He was an animagus, like McGonagall. He was hiding out in our house the entire time."

Lavender puts a hand to her mouth, looking sick. "A wizard was pretending to be your pet? But he was in the dorms – the tower! What kind of person is he? Could he have gotten past the wards on the girls stairs?"

Harry gives her a strange look, before realising what she's getting at and feeling sick himself. "Let's hope not," he mutters. "His name was Peter Pettigrew. He and Sirius were friends at school – they were Gryffindors with Professor Lupin and my dad. Best friends."

"Yeah and Pettigrew was the real Secret Keeper who gave up Harry's parents to You-Know-Who," Ron whispers to them, eyeing the surrounding tables, "He was a spy. A Death Eater."

"And you shared a dorm with him," Lavender says, distraught. Harry isn't prepared for how she flings herself at Ron, who startles at her sudden weight on his lap, arms wrapping around his neck.

Seamus edges closer to Dean. "It is kind of freaky," he admits. "Why didn't we get questioned by the Aurors?"

"Snape," Harry mutters bitterly, fist clenching. In his hand, the parchment crinkles and rips. "He convinced Minister Fudge that we were all confounded by Sirius. Ha! Like he knew what was happening. Snape hated my father and his friends. It's why he told everyone about Professor Lupin being a werewolf."

"What about the aurors?" Parvati questions, obviously horrified. "Surely they wouldn't leave it at that!"

Harry looks away. He doesn't expect Parvati to start shouting in another language, clearly extremely angry.

"Miss Patil!" Professor Potter cuts her tirade off, before she replies back in the same language. Harry blinks in confusion, wondering what they're saying. Parvati is ranting, obviously upset and angry about something. Whatever she says turns the teacher's face dark.

"I'll deal with it," she says, looking to Harry and Ron. "Come to my office this evening, if you would. I'm in the same corridor as Professor Binns. Bring Hermione."

Harry's stomach flip-flops, but he nods. "Professor, can- can I be excused?"

"Of course, Harry," she says and her voice is quiet. Harry gathers his bag, listening to Ron ask the same thing and getting permission to leave – along with the rest of their table.

Lavender keeps a hold of Ron's arm the entire way to Gryffindor tower. Dean and Seamus are quiet. Neville is pale and he keeps sneaking looks at them both. Parvati looks…Parvati looks furious, actually. Harry falls into step with her.

"What were you saying, back there?" he asks her.

"I was complaining." Her voice is short and vindicated. Harry looks down when he finds her hand winding into his, clenching tight. "You go through so many things every year. I told my parents over the holidays and they didn't believe me. It's not fair on you, when we know what kind of danger you get into every year. You don't even have parents to care."

Harry looks away from their joined hands. "No, I don't."

"Do you think Professor Potter will take you in?" Parvati asks.

"I don't even know her," Harry says. He can't help but look at their hands again. It's a strange feeling, holding hands. Parvati's hand is warm and not clammy. Her fingers are smooth and her nails are sparkly, painted Gryffindor red.

"You're definitely related. You should ask her tonight," Parvati says, meeting his eyes briefly, "I can come with you, if you want. For support."

For support, Harry mouths to himself. "I mean…if you want," he says, unsure.

Parvati eyes him critically. "I will," she replies, squeezing lightly before dragging him up the stairs at a faster speed.

Hermione is far from impressed later, hearing they're to go see a teacher already, but as soon as Lavender starts babbling about grown men, Aurors and paedophiles, her judgement is less. What surprises Harry, though, is how his dormmates are insistent on going as well.

"He was in our dorm, ours," Seamus says, lips pursed. "My mam's going to have a fit if he memory-charmed any of us."

"Memory-charmed?" Harry repeats, horrified.

"See, this is why you should have told the Aurors rather than have let Professor Snape speak for you," Parvati points out, before wincing at her own words. "That came out wrong."

"It's fine," Hermione says briskly, "let's just go."