Harry Potter and the Exchange Student
by Christine Morgan
christine@sabledrake.com
http://www.christine-morgan.org



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Author's Note: the characters of the Harry Potter novels are the property of their creator, J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. All other characters property of the author, with the exceptions of Becca Morgan and her parents, who are themselves. November 2001. 35,000 words.
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For Becca, with love.
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Chapter Ten – Night School

It wasn't the best Christmas break Harry had ever known, but then again, it wasn't the worst.
He had friends to exchange gifts with now, which was a huge step up from living with the Dursleys, and there were sleigh rides to Hogsmeade, caroling from door to door in the wizard village, and sledding on the hill.
But on the down side, he and Becca felt compelled to pay daily visits to Neville and were thus privy to the grotesque changes Neville was suffering through on his way back to humanity. He had to eat hugely to keep up with the demands on his body, and as he spent that first week on a diet of flies and other insects, visiting at mealtimes was especially trying.
About midway through, when Neville had reached the approximate size of a seven-year-old child and had human features emerging haphazardly through his froggy visage, Becca had a terribly hard time keeping a straight face. When Harry asked her what was wrong, she told him.
"It's just that … did you ever see 'The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad'?"
"No," Harry said. "What's that?"
"It was one of my favorite videos when I was a little kid," she explained. "Disney. Half was 'The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.' One of our cats is even named Ichabod. The other half was from 'The Wind in the Willows.'"
Harry grinned in recognition. "Oh, sure. I've read that one."
"I know it's mean, but poor Neville … right now he looks exactly like Mr. Toad."
"That is mean. Better not let his grandmother hear you say that."
"I wouldn't!" Her face was solemn, her eyes huge.
Neither of them had any desire to ever cross Mrs. Longbottom again. She said all was forgiven, when she deigned to speak to them on her own not-infrequent visits, but there was a coldness about her that said while it may be forgiven, it was most assuredly not forgotten, and if she had her way, it never would be forgotten. By her, or by Neville, either.
Neville, to their vast relief, didn't blame them. Or Professor Winterwind, whose resignation he received with distress because he'd felt something in common with the ex-instructor. He didn't even blame himself except to credit it to his ordinary brand of clumsy bad luck that always seemed to put him in the wrong place at exactly the wrong time.
Without Ron or any of his roommates around, the nights were long and quiet in the Gryffindor dormitory. Harry wasn't used to not having the sleep-sounds of anyone else around him. Even back at Number 4 Privet Drive, he could hear Uncle Vernon's snores rattling the windows, and the sad creak of Dudley's bed every time his porky cousin tried to roll over.
He was up late one night, putting off going to bed because he was in no hurry to lay there wakeful straining his ears for some noise, and flipping through the scrapbook Sirius had given him when his eye was caught by some notes that his father and Sirius had swapped during one of Professor Binns' endless history classes.
In Sirius' bold, dark script: You've got to do something about O.
In James Potter's neat handwriting: What do you mean? It's settled.
Sirius: Not from where she's sitting. I've seen her look at you and L.
James: So she's a little jealous.
Sirius: You don't know much about girls, do you, my friend? (This was followed by a doodle of a rather wry-looking smiley face).
James: Lily's teaching me all I need to know.
Sirius: It's not L. you need to worry about. O.'s not done with you two yet. Can see it in her eyes.
James: She knows she's not my type, and I'm not hers. It's got nothing to do with Lily.
Sirius: Maybe you don't think so, but mark me, O. does. Haven't you heard the saying about Hell and a woman scorned?
This disturbed Harry. He hadn't but glanced at it before, feeling a touch uneasy reading about his parents' early romantic days. But now, after what he'd overheard between Snape and Ophidia Winterwind, he had a pretty good idea who O. was and it bothered him to think that there was indeed some truth to what she'd been saying.
She hadn't been around over the rest of the break, having gone back to her home outside of London to gather her things. Professor Dumbledore had offered her the temporary job of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. His urgent ads in the Daily Prophet hadn't garnered a glimmer of interest, especially on such short notice.
The decision had, if Harry was interpreting snippets and looks by the rest of the faculty correctly, been a controversial one. Professor McGonagall in particular was incensed, and as Snape was none too pleased himself, it made them allies of a sort. That in itself was nearly enough to stand all of Hogwarts on end.
It got so that two days before the rest of the students were to return, Dumbledore had to call a special staff meeting to address the matter. Harry, giving in to the curiosity that had been both his bane and his best weapon, donned his Invisibility Cloak and hid in the darkest, most unused corner of the teachers' lounge to listen.
He was sure by now that Dumbledore had to be aware of his presence, even cloaked. After all, it had been Dumbledore to give him the magical item in the first place, and he knew all that went on within the castle walls. If he noticed Harry's silent presence, though, he gave no sign. He was perhaps too otherwise occupied.
Opinions on the Ophidia Winterwind issue seemed divided strictly down the middle. The male teachers all got a faintly besotted look every time her name was mentioned, while the female teachers bristled like cats. Even Professor Binns, who according to rumor still hadn't even quite come to the realization that he'd been dead for a long, long while, roused from his habitual doze to remark on what an excellent student she'd been, truly excellent, and deuced pretty, too.
Only Snape seemed conflicted. He was both bristled and besotted, if Harry was any judge.
Dumbledore settled things by reminding them that this was merely a temporary appointment until a more permanent arrangement could be found. Here, the wizards mostly groaned unhappily, while the witches looked grimly pleased.
By the time everyone else arrived on the Hogwarts Express, Neville was his old self again. The last few days had been possibly the most disconcerting of all, since he'd looked mostly like a boy except for when his throat would suddenly puff out and he'd utter incredibly loud croaking noises. He still had barely-noticeable webs between his fingers and toes, but Madame Pomfrey assured him those would fade soon.
The news about Reginald Winterwind leaving and his sister taking his place had made the papers. Curiously, Harry noted that while the articles included wizard photographs of him, there were none of her. Given her more highly photogenic qualities – when he said this to Becca, she shook her head and said, "You, too, huh? She's going to have every boy in this school wrapped around her pinkie finger." – Harry was puzzled by the omission.
Ron and the rest arrived back in an excellent mood. The Weasleys had had a wonderful vacation abroad, though with the unreliability of the foreign mail, their postcards arrived three days into the new semester. All of them were sunburned and peeling, and Ginny was heard to bemoan loud enough to bother Moaning Myrtle, the girl's bathroom resident ghost, about how she'd sprouted more freckles than ever from the hot Mediterranean sun.
Hermione, who had contrived to get the wizard paper delivered even to her parents' Muggle home, had been following the story keenly. She jumped straightaway on Harry's remark about the lack of photographs.
"There aren't any of her in the Who's Who of Witches and Wizards, either," she said. "Or in any of the Hogwarts albums. It really is a shame that they don't do a yearbook, you know, I think Colin might be onto something with that."
"Yeah, I wish I'd have one to take home with me," said Becca.
This startled Harry, who had forgotten that Becca would be leaving Hogwarts after exams. Well, they all would, but she'd be returning to America and not coming back. Despite her strong accent and the strange modern-Muggle things she'd gotten in her Christmas parcel, she had come to seem like one of them. This sidetracked him for a moment but he returned to Hermione's point.
"Why not, I wonder? When she's so --"
He caught himself, but not before both girls had squinted suspiciously at him. And Ron, scratching fitfully at his peeling sunburn, was no help.
"Gorgeous?" Ron supplied. "I tell you, no one's going to miss a day of Defense Against the Dark Arts this time around!"
"Night," Hermione said smugly.
"What?" Harry, Ron, and Becca asked together.
"Isn't it obvious? She doesn't photograph, she's never out and about before sunset – they're rescheduling DADA to after supper and giving us a study hour during the day, hadn't you heard? – and haven't you looked at her?"
"Oh, yeah," said Ron, winking extravagantly.
Hermione swatted him. "I'm serious! The white skin, the red eyes, the teeth? My parents are dentists and I know an unnatural bite when I see one. Plus, she's registered as an Animagus, but I think it's a false listing because isn't it too convenient that she can turn into a bat?"
"You're saying she's a vampire?" asked Harry, incredulous.
"Would they … they wouldn't hire a vampire to teach school, would they?" Becca asked. "I thought that was what Defense Against the Dark Arts was all about."
"Wait a minute!" Harry cried. "She was at the Quidditch match! She was there with Snape! And it was broad daylight. So how could she be a vampire?"
That stumped Hermione, who couldn't come up with an explanation. They finished unpacking and hurried down to dinner together, where all of Gryffindor was greeting Neville and welcoming him back. He was blushing at all the attention, though the Slytherins were quick to ask him if he'd eaten many bugs lately.
School got back underway, and as the first weeks passed, Harry was unaccountably troubled by something that he couldn't fathom. It wasn't like the prickles he'd felt before when someone was watching him, and not even Professor Trelawney was doing much of that anymore. She was evidently sure that the crisis had indeed passed for once, and that Harry was no longer in imminent danger of getting himself or someone else killed.
That, he finally figured out, was the problem. On the previous occasions when he'd had some unknown enemy, it usually took all year to fit the pieces together and solve the mystery. But Neville's Gran had confessed to the Aversion spell and the missing books, and for once, miraculously, no one was trying to kill Harry. No shadowy plots were unfolding around him. No servants of Voldemort; the Dark Lord had been conspicuous by his absence.
Why, he didn't even have his usual war with Slytherin, since they'd been disqualified from Quidditch for the remainder of the year. It meant more games for the rest of them as Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff vied for the championship. In previous years, the other two Houses had been quick to support Gryffindor, knowing that Gryffindor was the team with the best chance to beat Slytherin, and nobody wanted Slytherin to win. But with them out of the picture, the rivalry between the remaining three heated up.
Hermione had been right about one thing. Their schedules had been rearranged to accommodate a nighttime DADA class, with a study hall in the slot it had normally occupied. Ophidia Winterwind was never seen at breakfast or lunch, but was always present at dinner.
And now that the idea had been put into Harry's head, he watched her intently to see if she actually ate. It looked like she did, but never very much, and what was in her goblet could have been wine. It was very dark, and very red, though.
When it came to teaching, even Hermione had to admit that the new Professor Winterwind knew what she was doing.
"Well, she'd have to, wouldn't she?" Ron countered with a shrug. "If she is one and all."
"A vampire?" Becca still wasn't decided.
"A Dark witch," Ron said. "She's like one of the Series II Chocolate Frogs, really."
"How so?" Becca, still sensitive about the Neville incident, was touchy when it came to anything having to do with frogs.
"Tempting," said Ron, "but with hemlock filling."
"The only good thing about this," said Hermione irritably, "is that at least now you pay attention in class!"
"We'd just do well to all stay on our toes," Harry said.
Though as the weeks went by and lessons were strictly normal, he started to catch himself thinking that he'd be glad of some sort of plots or other distractions. He'd gotten so used to them that normal life at Hogwarts was almost dull by comparison. It did mean a lot less time spent in the infirmary, though.
He was also braced for Ophidia Winterwind to single him out, perhaps remark on having known his parents, perhaps try to get back at them a generation removed for whatever slights she felt she'd met at their hands. None of that happened. She treated him much as she did the other students, particularly the boys, upon whom she doted while tolerating the girls. Hermione had quite a bit to say about that, and even more to say about the way the boys went all glassy-eyed, as if they were hypnotized by the teacher's mere presence.
Harry finally took it upon himself to come right out and ask Professor Dumbledore about these things that stayed on his mind. Given Harry's impressive record, the Headmaster's door was always open to him, and he welcomed Harry into his office.
"And what can I do for you this fine spring day, Mr. Potter?" Dumbledore asked.
"Well, sir, I don't mean to nose around," Harry began diffidently.
"Every time you do, it seems that it is to Hogwarts' benefit," Dumbledore said with a kind smile.
Emboldened, Harry made a half-smile. "Thank you, sir. I was wondering … it's about Professor Winterwind …"
"Ah," said Dumbledore. "Ophidia Winterwind. Quite the, shall we say, unusual professor."
"Is she a vampire?" Harry just threw it out and waited to see what would happen.
Dumbledore didn't look particularly surprised, but mulled it over thoughtfully all the same. "A vampire. What makes you ask that, Mr. Potter?"
He outlined all of Hermione's reasons, feeling a little silly standing here in a patch of warm sunshine filtering through the smoked glass window of Dumbledore's office. On the walls all around him, portraits of previous headmasters dozed dustily in the sun.
"I see," said Dumbledore, and he sounded amused. "For the record, then, and you may repeat this to all of your inquisitive friends, Ophidia Winterwind is not, in fact, a vampire." He paused. "Not in the accepted sense of the word."
Harry's brows knit. "The accepted sense?"
"Never mind that last. While she does project a certain image, I guarantee that no one needs to start wearing garlic collars to bed at night."
Remembering the rancid garlic smell that had followed Professor Quirrell about, Harry was glad to hear it. He couldn't quite do what Dumbledore wished and 'never mind' what he meant about her not being a vampire 'in the accepted sense of the word,' but he did have another question.
"She knew my parents, didn't she?"
"Yes, Harry. They were students together. Although in different Houses, of course."
"Of course," Harry agreed automatically. "Was she … my father … I …"
Dumbledore smiled gently. "If it will set your mind at ease, to my knowledge she and your father went to one dance together, a Halloween ball in Hogsmeade. One dance, Harry, no more."
"Did my father dump her?"
"Are you asking if Ophidia Winterwind might, as Professor Snape does, harbor a grudge from those olden days?"
"I guess so, yes," Harry said with a little laugh to show he knew how silly that sounded.
But Dumbledore didn't laugh with him. "I suppose it might be possible. Unlikely, and I doubt it very much, but possible."
"Oh."
His worried feelings must have shown, because Dumbledore clapped a paternal hand on his shoulder. "Don't let it trouble you, my young friend. As I said, I doubt it very much. It appears, in fact, that Professor Winterwind is doing an exemplary job. I'm even thinking of asking her to stay on for next year!"

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Concluded in Chapter Eleven -- Uncle Vernon's Mistake



2001 / Christine Morgan / http://www.christine-morgan.org / christine@sabledrake.com