Professor McGonagall swept into the Great Hall with much to ponder. She hardly noticed when her lunch Appeared on the golden serving tray upon the professor's upper table, nor did she respond to Hagrid's rather obvious attempts to strike up a conversation. Much to the chagrin of her would-be conversational partner, the severe-looking woman absent-mindedly filled her plate with Yorkshire pudding, and proceeded to blankly surveil the Hall.

Slowly, she began the process of eating, one forkful at a time, all the while considering what she was to do with the Potter – or was it Black? – boy. Dumbledore was a great and powerful man, but sometimes he was a bit absentminded. At the moment, she supposed, he was up in that tower of his fiddling with a tea kettle, or that silly smoking astrolabe. And while these things were important, in their own way, she couldn't help but feel that neither was quite so important as the adjustment of Hogwart's newest student.

She suppressed a sigh as her eyes swept over the gaggle of students for a third time. Harry was not among them. She wondered if he were back in the library, researching the war, as Madam Pince had offhandedly remarked yesterday. He would find nothing but sorrow in those books.

But just as she had written off yet another meal for the withdrawn boy, she noticed him walk into the Hall, seemingly unaware that he was late at all. Neville Longbottom motioned to him from the Gryffindor section, and Harry dutifully filled the open seat next to him.

Professor McGonagall narrowed her eyes slightly at the unlikely pairing. Honestly, what were the odds that the boy who had lost his parents to the Darkest witch of their time would befriend her adopted son? It was as though Fate was playing a cruel trick. Though doubtless neither boy was yet aware of the connection, a sense of foreboding stole over the Professor. Harry had questions, and sooner or later, he would find the answers.

Perhaps those answers would come easier with different friends though. Picking apart the last section of her Yorkshire pudding, Professor McGonagall resolved to pair Harry with Ron Weasley for their next in-class assignment. Ron could use a bit of direction, anyway.

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Harry couldn't help but catch sight of his brown eyes in every reflective surface, nowadays. The words he had heard in the Pensive still rang in his ears, days later. On a whim, he had even asked Madam Pomfrey to check his hearing (though predictably, there was nothing wrong with his ears.) He found himself wishing that he had access to a Pensive of his own. His thoughts swirled about his head so fast recently that it seemed impossible to pin one down long enough to analyze it at all.

Bellatrix was his mother. (Or was she?)

She was a kind, compassionate woman. (Had she joined the Death Eaters?)

He was not related to the Potters. (Could he be their lost son?)

Every memory was suspect, every recollection in need of examination. And it certainly didn't help that he still couldn't remember exactly where his mother had gone.

He had hoped that Snape could give him insight as to what was happening, but Snape wasn't around much anymore. Earlier in the week, he could hear him sweeping around his dungeon, potion bottles clinking, when he would come and knock on the heavy wooden door, but for the last couple days, his dungeon held only silence.

Two days ago, Professor Dumbledore had announced at breakfast that Professor Snape had been called away unexpectedly, but Harry couldn't help but feel that Dumbledore was hiding something. He half-expected to find Snape working on some secret project down in his office, but even as Harry raised his fist to the door, the spark of hope was crushed by a sense of inevitable rejection. The Potion Master had also had the foresight to cast a host of defensive spells upon his door, which had been made impervious to snooping.

And so, feet dragging, Harry made his way back to the Great Hall for lunch.

As he walked into the cavernous room, he couldn't help but wonder if any of the happily-chattering students had noticed his absence. He couldn't understand for the life of him how anyone could stand so many voices talking at once. When he had first arrived at Hogwarts, he had found the sheer number of students awe-inspiring. Now, it seemed overwhelming.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Neville waving at him. Neville was a bit odd, as his peers went. He was quite clumsy, and Harry thought it lucky that no one had yet been seriously hurt by a mis-cast spell or melted cauldron. He didn't seem to be particularly popular, and more than once had noticed, in hurried whispers, another student attempting to avoid partnering with the hapless wizard.

Despite this, though, Harry found he rather liked Neville. Harry knew that there were already rumors going around about his unusual arrival at the castle, and a friend that didn't ask too many questions was a valuable one indeed. Harry suspected that Neville wouldn't make fun of him, even if he knew the full story. But he had resolved long ago not to divulge the details until he himself knew what was going on. And so, with a sense of relief, Harry joined Neville at the Gryffindor table, and helped himself to a generous portion of Yorkshire pudding.

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Up in his office, the Headmaster was perturbed indeed. Snape had been gone a far longer time than expected, and he hoped that his Potions Master was simply taking his time leisurely enjoying the English countryside, and had not been captured by the Death Eaters. He feared very much for the fate of both Severus and Bellatrix, if Snape had been caught attempting to ascertain her location.

More to the point, if Snape had been captured, he doubted very much that he would be able to discharge his duties as Potions Master, and then he would have to replace two professors in the same week.

Just that morning, his latest hire for the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts had keeled over while preparing that day's lesson plan. He supposed that the position really wasn't for the faint of heart, and the man had been 92 years old, but really this curse business was causing a whole host of inconvenience.

He'd been extremely surprised to find an owl awaiting him at his office that morning, with a small scroll clutched in its talons, embossed with the Ministry's seal.

On the parchment, just two words were scrawled in spidery black ink.

Dolores Umbridge

It seemed their illustrious Minster planned to keep an eye on him. Dumbledore sighed in resignation, noting that at this point in the year, it would be challenging to find anyone else willing to fill the cursed role. Crumpling up the parchment and resolving to write Ms. Umbridge by the end of the week, a slow smile crept across his face. Even if things with this Dolores Umbridge turned out rather terribly, he knew one thing for sure.

She would not be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts next year.