A/N: Two days 'til Christmas...

Anti-Litigation Charm: I do not own.

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Harry wasn't sure what to make of the rumors. He had been one of the students who had stuck their head out of their compartment on the train to watch Hermione wrestle with the absurdly small—but no less dangerous—dragon that had attack them on their journey to Hogwarts. Now the other students had put the two and two together, and no one would simply shut up about the fact that the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher had started off by fighting off a dragon, particularly when several students whispered that the jinx on the job might have tried to stop her before she had even begun.

She appeared in the Great Hall for breakfast, but acted as though she didn't know them. Harry didn't begrudge her this—she wasn't supposed to know them, technically—and instead waited his turn to work out his schedule with McGonagall while finishing up his meal. Still, it was odd sitting at the table with just Ron.

"Potter," McGonagall said, looking over her notes, "Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology… I was very pleased with your Transfiguration score, I'll be happy to have you in my class. Potions, of course, since Professor Snape is accepting students with an 'Exceeds Expectations' this year." Harry thought she saw her sniff disapprovingly at this ever so slightly, and knew she must know exactly why. Still, he wasn't going to complain. It meant he could continue on his path to becoming an Auror. "Care of Magical Creatures?"

"Yes," Harry said. He had considered not signing up, but had reversed this decision at the last minute.

"Very well, Potter." She tapped a blank sheet of parchment, and the details instantly filled out. "Here is your schedule. Additionally, twenty-one hopefuls have already put down their names for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. I shall pass the list to you in due course, and it will be up to you to schedule the trials."

"Thank you, Professor." McGonagall moved on, and a few minutes later, he and Ron left the hall. The latter had been cleared to take the same classes as Harry, minus Care of Magical Creatures.

"We have a free period now… and a free period after break… and a free period after lunch…excellent…"

"Not me," Harry said, shouldering his bag. "I've got Care of Magical Creatures after lunch."

"You signed up for that?" Ron asked, as they took the stairs back to the common room. "What did you do that for?"

Harry shrugged in non-answer. He didn't want to tell Ron that aside from not wanting to make Hagrid feel bad—after all, who else would be taking his NEWT-level class?—Harry had thought that all things considered, the stuff Hagrid had taught them was pretty useful. Even the lesson with Blast-End Skrewts had paid off; if Harry hadn't been dealing with them for half a year before going through the maze, he didn't think he'd have known the first thing on how to stop it. Hagrid's lessons might not be orthodox, but he put it at the same level as Potions: hate the class, respect the results. Best of all, he actually liked the teacher.

The common room was nearly empty, save for a few of the seventh years. He had a quick word with Katie Bell about the trials, while Ron threw a Fanged Frisbee that he had confiscated earlier. Crookshanks appeared from nowhere, darting out from under a dresser and launching himself at the snarling disk.

"What's he doing here?" Ron grumbled, as the half-kneazle pounded the Fanged Frisbee into the carpet. "I thought we'd be well rid of him now."

"Crookshanks!" Harry's head snapped around, and for a moment, he thought he might have walked into an alternate universe. One of the newly sorted first-years was coming down the stairs, but he looked familiar. Not as though Harry knew him, but as though he was seeing someone else in him. Tall for his age and pale with black hair that fell past his ears, he looked rather out of place.

The boy scooped the protesting cat up in his arms, and nudged the frisbee back over to Ron with his toe. "Sorry about that."

Ron was gaping at him, and Harry quickly stepped on his foot. The red-head recomposed himself, and bent down to swipe up the battered, whimpering toy.

"You're Harry Potter, right?" The boy held out his hand, still holding onto Crookshanks with one hand. The half-kneazle glared at Harry, as though saying, save me from this indignity. "I'm Selenius Black. You're the Quidditch captain, aren't you? When are the trials?"

"I—er—haven't fully figured that out yet," Harry said, shaking Selenius's hand, still trying to figure out how his name and appearance fit, but it was like cramming two unmatched puzzle pieces together. "I'll put up a notice when I've decided."

"Excellent." And then Selenius was off running back up the stairs, Crookshanks in tow, leaving the stupefied pair.

Harry and Ron looked at each other.

A moment later, Selenius came tearing down the stairs again, this time with Crookshanks following at his heels, and was out the portrait hole, half-muttering half-chanting a mantra of, "Late, late, late!"

Harry and Ron shared a look.

"This is going to be an interesting year," Ron quipped, flopping down into one of the armchairs. "Which class d'you suppose the poor sod has first?"

~o~O~o~

Harry and Ron walked inside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom half an hour later, to find Hermione sitting at her desk. She didn't look up from her work as the students arrived, and they milled around for a moment before finding a seat and waiting. The room was unchanged, though there was a small glass vase on Hermione's—Professor Granger's, Harry mentally reminded himself—desk. There was a single red rose in it, and Harry wondered if someone had given it to her, or if she had picked it for herself.

She set her papers aside a moment later, and stood up.

"My name is Professor Granger," she began.

"Are you related to Hermione Granger?" Terry Boot asked suddenly.

"The missing girl?" Professor Granger asked, her tone perfectly casual. "No, I'm not related to her."

Terry Boot looked a bit crestfallen; Harry knew that he and Hermione had gotten on rather well, and that he was one of the non-Gryffindors who had taken her disappearance rather badly.

"I first began teaching this class when I was nineteen," Professor Granger said, her voice without inflection, as she surveyed the room. "Because of that, I made it a rule to allow upperclassmen to challenge me, just in case they thought I wasn't up to snuff."

Harry's eyes widened at this, and he wasn't the only one. He glanced over at Malfoy, whose brow was furrowed, and who for once did not look sneeringly disdainful. He actually looked slightly wary.

"I doubt any of you have the desire to do so, but I feel it's only fair to offer you the same chance to continue the tradition," Professor Granger said, her tone light.

"Did anyone ever beat you?" Parvati asked, looking interested.

"No," Hermione said pleasantly. And, Harry thought, just a bit proudly. "But by the end of the year, many of them did give me a run for my money."

"Where did you learn to wrestle a dragon?" Dean Thomas asked eagerly.

Hermione grinned, making the new, vertical scar on her left cheek stand out. Harry hadn't noticed it until now. "The same way I learned to fight Death Eaters."

She laughed, though not unpleasantly, but it still made a shiver run down Harry's spine.

"What I'm going to teach you," she said, folding her arms, "is more than just how to cast spells. The Dark Arts require more than just memorization—to have any hope of prevailing, you have to be cunning and quick on your feet. You have to learn to identify, to know when to run, and learn how to defend. You must internalize this information. In short," she said, straightening up to her full height, "you have to learn to use your head and your instincts."

She gave them a moment to let this sink in.

"The Dark Lord is out there," she said, her words quiet but serious, and easily heard throughout the room. "And even if he were not, there will always be others just like him. The Dark Arts are a part of our lives just as surely as any other branch of magic, and to ignore it out of fear will serve no purpose."

She rapped her hand loudly against her desk, causing them all to jump.

"You will either adapt and survive, or you won't make it through this class alive," she snapped, and Harry was stunned by the ice in her tone. "I will expect your full and undivided attention and effort in this class. Now," she said, leaning against her desk, "how many of you know offensive and defensive spells?"

Most of them raised their hands, and as Harry counted, he realized that the majority of them were from the DA. Everyone from Ernie Macmillian and Terry Boot to Ron and himself.

"Good," she said approvingly. "Good… most of you were in Dumbledore's Army last year, weren't you? Yes, I heard about that," she said, registering Ernie's startled expression. "Excellent. You're all much better prepared than I had anticipated."

She raised her hands, palms level, in an indication for them to rise. They did.

"You will now divide yourself into pairs," she said, flicking her wand. There was a glint of gold on her hand, and Harry realized that she was wearing a rather peculiar-looking ring. He wracked his head to remember where he had seen it before, and then realized that Hermione had been wearing it almost all summer. The desks immediately slid out from around them, and stacked themselves up neatly against the wall. "You're sixth-years now, so it's time to step things up. One partner will attempt to jinx, the other to defend, using non-verbal magic."

Ron's jaw dropped in horror.

"Can anyone tell me why non-verbal magic is important?" Hermione asked lightly.

Terry Boot raised his hand. Hermione nodded at him, and he answered, "It gives you a split-second advantage, Professor. If you don't give your opponent verbal warning, it makes it harder for them to parry."

"Excellent phrasing, Mr. Boot. Ten points to Ravenclaw. Yes," Hermione continued, as they started shuffling into groups of two, "it does give you an advantage. It requires a good deal of mental discipline, but it is an important and highly useful skill."

She paused for a moment, and then added, "Points will be given for non-verbally cast spells. Points will be deducted for cheating." Ron looked horrified. "Begin."

"I'm doomed," the red-head whimpered.

"I'll go first," Harry muttered.

The first ten minutes of the lesson went without any progress. Professor Granger walked around the rooms, eyes narrowed, observing them critically. Pansy Parkinson attempted to get away with a whispered Jelly-Legs Jinx, and fifteen points were deducted from Slytherin.

"Spells are not cast because you speak them," Hermione lectured, ignoring the girl glaring at her back as she turned to watch Neville's red-faced efforts. "They are cast because when you speak, you have force and motivation behind your words! That is what casts your spell! You must draw up that impetus to will your spell without having to make a war-cry out of it."

Harry screwed his concentration together, but he let out a startled yelp when a moment later, Neville unexpectedly shot off a perfect, silently-cast Stunner. It hit Seamus, who toppled to the floor.

"Excellent! Excellent, Mr. Longbottom!" Professor Granger praised, as Neville stared down at his practice partner in shock. "Fifteen points to Gryffindor. Again!"

~o~O~o~

"It almost feels like Mad-Eye Moody again," Ron muttered, "or the bloke who was impersonating him in fourth year, anyway."

"Just without the paranoia," Harry agreed, as they made their way down to Potions.

"But she didn't give us as much homework as I thought," Ron said, looking pleased. "Just a foot of parchment on defending against Unforgivables, that's not too bad. I can do four inches for each one."

"Just wait," Harry said, as they walked through the dungeons. "I'll bet Snape gives us loads."

Ron groaned.

"Harry! Hey, Harry!" They both turned around in time to see Jack Sloper hurrying to catch up to them, panting. He held out a scroll of parchment. "For you."

"Thanks," Harry said, unrolling the parchment.

"No problem. Hey, listen—I heard you made Captain. When're you holding trials?"

"No idea," Harry said, as he read Dumbledore's letter. Ron peered over his shoulder to look at it. "Might be the weekend after next, I'll let you know."

The door to the classroom opened, and Snape stood there, scowling at them.

"Inside," he said coldly.

Harry pocketed the missive, and then he, Ron, and the other students waiting in the corridor reluctantly tramped inside. The door shut behind with a foreboding clang, and Harry and Ron were quick to find seats together, and were soon joined by Ernie Macmillian, the only Hufflepuff in the room. Harry counted ten other students besides himself.

"Many of you are aware that under normal circumstances, I only allow the best to go on to NEWT-level work," Snape said smoothly, striding to the front of the room. "However, this year, due to the unusually low number of students who scraped by with barely more than an 'Acceptable'—in part due to the many insufferable distractions from last year—I have agreed to make an exception, at the Headmaster's request."

His gaze landed on Harry, and then slid over to Malfoy, and Harry had the distinct feeling that Snape wasn't pleased to see either of them. The Potions professor absolutely despised lowering his standards. It was probably a matter of pride to him.

"Therefore, I expect you to make the very best of this opportunity," he said, his lip curling in a sneer, "because if you do not put all of your effort into this endeavor, you will leave this class and not be given a second chance."

Harry heard Ron swallow, and tried to keep his gaze straight. He wasn't going to give Snape a good reason to throw him out. He needed this class. He had been willing to spend the summer studying to retake it if it would mean he would have a fair chance at becoming an Auror. He wasn't going to let that dream slip out of his fingers, no matter how badly Snape might provoke him. He might respect the man just a tiny bit more than before, after what he had seen in Grimmauld Place, but he was just as nasty and acerbic as ever.

"The Draught of Living Death," Snape drawled, flicking his wand at the board, where instructions immediately appeared, "is a difficult potion, but nothing you shouldn't be able to accomplish if you deserve to be in this class."

He eyed the room with a cold, cruel smirk.

"Any melted cauldrons today," he whispered, "and you will not return tomorrow. Now get to work!"

Harry and Ron exchanged horrified looks, and then joined the other students in setting up their cauldrons and scales. Harry leaned forward and read Snape's instructions carefully, determined not to fail this, and then got to work. He re-read each instruction twice, feverishly following it to the letter as though his life depended on it, hovering over his potion with worry and fear at the start of each following step.

He could have fainted with relief when his potion turned the correct shade as dictated for the half-way stage, and then immediately set about crushing his sopophorus with the flat side of his knife.

"Sir," he heard one of the Ravenclaws ask. "Sir, the instructions on the board… it's not the same as the ones in the book…"

Snape immediately swooped down on the offending student. "Do you have any problem with my instructions?" he asked dangerously.

Harry didn't even look at Ron, merely shook his head in exasperation, wondering who on earth would be stupid enough to question Snape, particularly when he was already in a foul mood.

"No sir, I just thought—"

Harry tuned out the rest of the conversation as he poured the juice into his cauldron, and let out a pent-up sigh of gratitude to whatever gods were looking after him—it had turned the exact shade of lilac described in the book. They were using the book as reference for what their potion should look like, but as the Ravenclaw just moments ago had found out, they were apparently using deviated instructions.

Harry made a mental note to ask Hermione about that later. It wasn't a big deal, really, but he was curious. He glanced over at Ron's cauldron, which was light purple, not quite the right shade of color, but far better than what he might have hoped for. Sweat beaded down Harry's forehead, getting into his eyes, and forcing him to take off his glasses and wipe his face before moving onto the next step.

When Snape finally called for them to stop, Harry and Ron sat in their seats, resolute but terrified that Snape might use any fault in their potion to dismiss them. They waited as he took a turn around the room. Snape seemed determined to send at least one of them packing, but Harry watched those hopes crash and burn from Snape's face as he stared at the cauldron of the last two students, at least one of whom he thought might give him the pleasure of kicking out.

Harry watched him grit his teeth as he took in Harry's potion, which was nearly identical to the book's description, and then turn to Ron's, which was a few shades off but not unsalvageable.

"Acceptable," he bit out. "Now all of you, get out of my sight!"

Harry tried to keep the elation from showing on his face. Ron looked like he might pass out at any moment. Neither of them waited a second longer than they had to; they decanted the contents of their potions and dropped them off at Snape's desk before grabbing their things and fleeing the dungeons.

~o~O~o~

It was with some reluctance that Harry tiredly traipsed down to Hagrid's hut after lunch for Care of Magical Creatures. It had already been a long day, and he dreaded thinking about what kind of beast Hagrid might show them today. He stopped several yards away when he realized that Hagrid was talking to someone wearing robes that bore the familiar 'M' of the Ministry of Magic. He approached slowly, unsure of whether he should be here or not, or if Hagrid had possibly forgotten he had a one-person class arriving.

"We'll be by to check on it later," the man was saying, as Harry neared. "The Committee was more than happy to turn it over to us, that's our thing you know, and the Minister insisted…"

Hagrid was nodding happily, and looked up in time to see Harry. He waved him over.

"Let us know if there are any problems."

"O' course." Hagrid looked as though Christmas had come early.

The man departed without another word, and Harry waited for him to leave before turning to Hagrid.

"Who's that?"

"Jus' someone from the Ministry," Hagrid said cheerfully. "From the Dragon Research an' Restraint Bureau. They found the dragon that attacked the train, but they don' want ter get rid of it, seeing as it's so rare. One o' a kind, in fact."

"Hagrid," Harry said with trepidation, "are you—are they letting you keep a dragon?"

Hagrid motioned for Harry to follow him, and they circled around the hut.

Harry was no stranger to dragons. Hagrid had illegally hatched a Norwegian Ridgeback in his first year, and Harry had a rather frightful encounter with a fully-grown Hungarian Horntail in his fourth year. But this dragon was—no other word for it—bizarre. Harry didn't know much about dragons, since they were usually taught to later classes, so he had no idea what breed it was, but he supposed he was about to find out.

"It looks jus' like a Hebridean Black," Hagrid said, as the enormous beast snorted in their direction. It was about twenty feet in length, which meant that, despite being about half the size of a normal Hebridean, it was not by any means small. But compared to other breeds, this one was positively tiny. "But it's fully grown, an' it's not goin' ter get any bigger'n this. Beauty, isn't he?"

Harry stared at the miniature Hebridean Black. It was curled up on the grass, fitted with a harness around its neck and a length of chain that snaked through the grass until it reached a deeply-buried stake several yards away.

"Can it—it can't breathe fire, can it?" Harry asked hopefully, as smoke trailed from the beast's nostrils. It stretched its wings, and then curled its tail around its shiny black hide and laid its head on the ground, eyeing them.

"O' course he can," Hagrid said, looking absolutely delighted.

Harry tried to gauge how far away the dragon was from Hagrid's hut, and how much slack the chain still had, and found he didn't like the answer. He also had no idea what its flame range was, but he was certain that even if the chain still had no slack, it was close enough to set Hagrid's house on fire directly.

"Hagrid," Harry began, trying to keep the grimace out of his voice. "You live in a wooden house."

"Dumbledore already took care o' it," Hagrid said, still eyeing the dragon with the same longing, motherly look Harry had seen him give Norbert. "Fireproofed it an' then some."

"So how long are you keeping it for?" Harry asked, reluctantly following Hagrid as they stepped closer.

"I don' know," Hagrid said, and for the first time, he sounded worried. The dragon lifted its head and spread its wings at his approach, but didn't open its mouth to threaten flame. "They migh' let me keep him, but they're still tryin' ter figure out where he fits into all o' this fer now."

The dragon was being awfully tame around them, for a creature Harry had never seen take well to human presence, and Harry was starting to get an inkling suspicion that it had not simply attacked the train at random.

"Hagrid, you said it was one of a kind?" he asked, as Hagrid laid an enormous hand on the dragon's back. The beast snorted again, and nipped at his arm, but didn't do anything more aggressive than that. "Does that mean someone bred it, or…?"

"Yeh won' find any dragons this small in the wild, unless they're young," Hagrid informed him, as he scratched the dragon at the base of its wings. It made a sound that rather resembled a guttural purr, and closed its eyes. "Someone must've bin breeding 'em without a license, an' Dumbledore thinks someone sent it ter attack the Hogwarts Express." He gave the dragon a final pat, and then pulled his hand away. "Big enough ter knock over the train, maybe, but not too big fer one or two wizards ter handle on their own."

"So," Harry ventured, "he's very used to people?"

"Oh, yeah. Yeh've seen how dragons normally get around people, they don' like 'em very much," Hagrid said, reaching into his moleskin coat and pulling out a dead squirrel. He tossed it to the dragon, and it snapped it out of the air, swallowing the treat whole. "This one's a bit shy an' skittish, migh' not like too many people around, but he's used ter 'em alrigh'—it doesn' hurt that he's male, they're less aggressive than the females."

Harry remembered the raging Horntail trying to protect her clutch of eggs, and privately found himself agreeing.

"Charlie's goin' ter be yer class project," Hagrid said happily. "We'll be lookin' at other creatures o' course, but yer going ter take care o' a live dragon—a real treat, I reckon."

"Charlie?" Harry asked.

"Ah, yeah, he's the one who wrote ter the Ministry tellin' them that I'm qualified ter handle dragons," Hagrid said happily. "Thought I'd name Charlie here in his honor, seein' as he's the reason I get ter keep him."

Harry looked over at Charlie, who let out a snort at him, and wondered whether he ought to thank Charlie Weasley for making Hagrid so happy, or write him a very stern letter about not helping Hagrid acquire anymore dragons.


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-Anubis