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IV., in which Colin wakes up, Muggle Studies holds its first lesson, and the new DADA professor reveals himself in a quite unorthidox way.
When he woke in the morning, his first thoughts were of Harry. He lay for several long, drowsy moments in his bed, surrounded by the yards upon yards of aging red velvet and moth-eaten gold satin of the curtains on his bed, wondering if Harry, too, was just waking to the thick, honey-yellow sunlight of mid-morning.
Or if, perhaps, Harry had long since climbed down from the tall four-poster in his own seventh-year dormitory room, stretched his slender arms out behind him with a great yawn before slipping in and out of the moldering old showers in the Gryffindor boys' bathrooms; tossed on a pair of his old grass-stained Quidditch corduroys and the matching blood-red sweater with its pinstripe of gold across his chest, throwing his broomstick over one shoulder (quite dashingly, of course, not bothering with the smudges on his glasses or the dishevelment of his hair); dashing onto the pitch just as dawn broke over the trees, all of which were aflame in their autumn glory; that same messy, moppish hair rippling brilliantly in the breeze which also stained his pale cheeks rosy pink, and made him squint as he searched for the tiny, fluttering Snitch he had loosed moments earlier for a bit of light practice.
Or if Harry was still in bed, sleeping, glasses sitting were he had carefully placed them the night before, on the edge of his bedside table; his eyelashes a harsh line of spider-leg stitches on the pristine length of his pallid cheek, his breath hot on the pillow and his fingertips twitching nearby from dreams which made him nervous; his hair would be spread out like the wing of a flying crow against the pure white linen, the shadows lining his face would be innocent and grey, all trapped between the dry, warm skin of Harry and the heavy, dusty fabric of his curtains, which would be drawn closed against the other seventh-years in the dorm, and against his nightmares.
He sighed into his own heavy blood-and-glory curtains, into the shadows lurking in the corners of the canopy and the soft carvings of the tall, round posts above him.
No, Harry was none of these, though surely he was awake and dressed for the day. Harry Potter did not wake up early for Quidditch practice on Saturdays, nor did he laze about in bed. More likely he was probably somewhere in between - enjoying the velveteen warmth of a tatty old armchair and a steaming mug of hot cocoa in the common room, sitting at breakfast in the Great Hall (though, he thought shrewdly, Harry would not be eating, for the nth meal since he arrived at the school), picking through the library shelves under the careful and gleaming eyes of Madam Pince, or visiting old Hagrid out in his tiny stonework hut on the edge of the Dark Forest.
The boy momentarily forgot Harry Potter as he showered, dressed, and combed his soft blond hair. But when he turned to his dresser, on top of which lay his wonderful old camera, whose flash bulb still sparkled and shone in the bright light from the windows as though it had been bought just yesterday, his focus immediately returned to Harry.
Strapping the camera around himself, he tested the lens for a moment, peering through its window in the same adoring and quietly awed fashion which he had during his first year at Hogwarts, when every picture taken had been sent home to his dad, and he snapped off a few pictures of the sixth-year dormitory to get the old thing warmed up.
Today, it seemed, was to be a stalking day for Colin Creevey.
Breakfast that morning was an airy and cheerful affair, sausages steaming in their small silver plates, pitchers of pumpkin and orange juices gleaming in the yellow sunlight which poured in through the Great Hall's high, elegant windows, and the sparkling eyes of many grinning youths lighting up the entire room, right to the very rafters.
But for Harry, this was merely another chance for him to be ignored by his peers. He poked at the meager helping on his plate with the gold-plated tines of his fork, his knuckles propping up his pale cheek as he leaned to one side on the table. The conversation around him - centered mostly on Seamus, Neville, and Dean's comparisons of this year's girls at Hogwarts - drifted in and through his ears, and he understood it all, but was barely paying attention. Thoughts formed and disappeared again in his brain, some connected to the chatter surrounding him, some utterly baffling as to their origin.
It was not until Seamus jabbed him harshly in the ribs with the stack of the term's new schedules that Harry was awakened from the quasi-trance he had formerly been under, and he found the slip of paper with his name on it quickly before passing the remaining pile on its way down the long table.
The first class of the term for Harry, starting just after lunch ended, was Transfigurations with the Hufflepuffs, followed by Charms. Because it was the first day of the term, and classes began in the afternoon, everyone only had the two classes that day. But the rest of the week, Harry's lessons were divided into groups of three, one in the morning, two in the afternoon.
He looked at the course titles casually, expecting the usual round of classes. Indeed, he would be taking Transfiguration, Herbology, Charms, and - his least favorite class of them all - Potions. He would also be subject to sitting through History of Magic with Professor Binns, the only ghost on the faculty, up to three times a week, but he was by this time used to the dull nature of each lesson with the specter.
There was, however, one course which came as quite a surprise to Harry. He had been placed in a Muggle Studies class. His mind suddenly came awake. Surely Professor McGonagall knew that he had been raised a Muggle?
Immediately, Harry climbed from the long bench beside the Gryffindor table, and he approached the stern old professor, who was at this time speaking with a trembling first-year girl at the very end of the table.
"Excuse me, Professor?"
"One moment, please, Mr. Potter.... Yes, yes, you're absolutely correct, Miss Price, see me after lunch is through and I'll fix that right away for you. No first year at this school would ever be expected to study Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, and Divination all at the same time, no." The woman turned to face Harry, and as she did so, her watery old eyes lit up at the sight of him. "Ah, Mr. Potter, it is good to see you again. How were your holidays?"
"They were fine, Professor, but I need to ask you about this - "
Professor McGonagall snatched the paper from his hands, leaning back slightly to catch the words just right in her small glasses. She nodded, glancing back at him. "And what exactly is the problem with this course schedule, Mr. Potter? I see nothing wrong with it."
"Well, it's just that I've been put in a Muggle Studies course, Professor, and I was just curious about it, because I lived with the Dursleys for so long, and - "
"Oh, yes, naturally. You see, Mr. Potter, in reviewing the courses you had previously selected at the end of last term, I realized that you had selected several extremely difficult lessons. I only arranged it so that you would have more free time, less stress and pressure to study instead of, for example, practicing on the Quidditch pitch." Her eyes glittered kindly in the sunlight. "We wouldn't want our star Seeker becoming too unfocused on the Snitch, now would we?"
Harry gaped, his mouth quivering open and closed again in quiet succession.
"Precisely. Having this Muggle Studies course will not only be a much lighter workload for you, but it will also give you a view of your childhood world which you have not previously seen. I believe it will be quite refreshing for you. Now, go on, finish your meal, Mr. Potter," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I shall see you in class later today, hm?" She smiled, adding, "If you really want to consider changing the class, you are perfectly welcome to stop by my office later to choose a different course in its place. Now, if you will be so kind ...?" She turned away, back to another first year with a rather loud question about the sort of homework load he would be expecting with so many classes in his schedule.
Harry, dumbfounded, made his way back to his seat beside Seamus, but he could not lift his fork. Conversation went on around him. Food was passed before him, but his appetite was not stirred by it. Sunlight winked and glared off of chalices and pitchers all around him, but he did not notice.
Suddenly it had become quite clear to him that, while they appeared to understand the world in all its confused state and wonders, professors at Hogwarts, like the students, were simply trying their best to do the right thing as the days rolled by. The thought struck him as quite funny, but as he took his place once again beside Seamus at the table, he looked up at the long Head Table, and he realized that every one of the adults seated there was fallible. With, of course, the exception of Snape, Harry felt his affection for the crumbling school and its entire population swell slightly.
With an odd little smile on his thin face, he managed to finish a piece of toast spread with marmalade, more breakfast than he had eaten for most of the summer.
When Draco arrived at the door of his first class of the term, he found clipped neatly to the door with a thin length of clear tape, which was curiously made of a very foreign, gleaming material, a note.
We'll be on the lawn next to Greenhouse 5, it read in an odd sort of black ink, Do come out and join us. It was signed one Professor Trimble, and Draco raised a pallid eyebrow skeptically.
Most professors at Hogwarts were elderly and quite cross, or of middling years, stern, and embittered by the flippant nature of their students. To leave an entire class of students - especially students of varying ages, from the tiny third-years to Draco himself, in his seventh - was unfathomable. Draco assessed that the professor must have been new this year, or he was quite unpredictable indeed.
And his handwriting, all of those squat, curling letters, implied that he was relatively relaxed and possibly quite creative. Draco smiled to himself; perhaps this class was to be slightly simpler than he had been anticipating.
He carried himself haughtily on down to the lawn, a gently sloping cloak of verdant green hovering just slightly over the lawn. His robes rippled out behind him; his hair was tossed in a teasing bray of wind, and he hesitated for just a moment as he watched the small figure of the professor hopping about excitedly as he spoke with two of the smaller students.
Most of the class, Draco assumed, had already assembled on the lawn; many girls were sitting on the gentle incline which lead up to the fenced-in greenhouses above, their legs pulled in close to them as they watched the boys stand in a broken circle. Draco approached, casually joining the assembly from behind. He stood away from the rest, by himself, studying his classmates' faces. He was the only seventh-year.
"Ah," said the professor, his keen eyes landing on Draco, "good of you to make it, Mr. Malfoy." Draco, slightly taken aback, masked his surprise as an expression of quiet indignation. "Please, join our little circle. Girls," he added in a good-natured shout, "Oi, yes, you - please stand with us. I have something to show you."
The professor was a small, spindly young gentleman with a shock of blond hair which strongly reminded Draco of a vain Defense Against the Dark Arts professor five years removed from the school. He was not wearing the dull, straight-cut robes of his colleague professors, no; he was dressed in completely Muggle fashion. The sleeves of his dress shirt, pale yellow, were rolled to his elbows, and his trousers were creased neatly down the front and hemmed with inch-wide cuffs at his ankles. There were ink pens in his pocket - Muggle ink pens, ball-point and inexpensive, not the shining fountain pens which had become so popular among adult wizards in London - and a shining silver wristwatch dangling on his wrist. His shoes were leather, brown, and tied with odd little brown strings, strings which had at either end a small cuff of a glinting material.
He produced from the scuffed duffel bag at his feet one perfectly round, white ball. The seams of the ball formed dozens of the small, geometric shape which Draco could not name, despite his desperate internal struggle to remember such trivial information. His father had taught him what shape that was, with its eight perfect sides and gaping angles.
"This," the professor said, holding up the ball with one of his wide, flat hands, "is a football."
One of the smallest students, a boy Draco would have placed in Ravenclaw or even Slytherin, crinkled his little nose and said loudly, "Well, what does it do?"
The professor looked around at the students, his small blue eyes twinkling sharply as he absorbed their blank, confused expressions. Draco, standing alone on the outskirts of the little group, jammed his hands into the pockets of his robes and smirked.
"Oh, Mr. Malfoy," said the professor lightly, the football now resting between his thin waist and his wrist, which hung lazily by his side. "Come and help me demonstrate exactly how this little puppy works, would you please?"
"But professor," objected Draco somewhat stiffly, "I am no professional football player. I don't even know what it is, how to play, the rules of the game. There's got to be someone here who even remotely knows the rules?"
The small man considered this, looking around the class. He shrugged, the lights of his eyes finding again Draco's face. "Nope, I think I would rather see you up here, kicking the ball around with me. I'll explain as we go." Draco did not move; the man's jovial expression hardened. "Mr. Malfoy, perhaps I was not making myself very clear to you. Perhaps your Head of House would be able to explain if better, were I to speak with him? Please, join me in front of the class."
Several of the girls tittered; several of the boys chuckled, rubbing elbows with a knowing glance between them. Draco ignored them all as he strode through the class, who backed aside to create a path for him as he did.
Professor Trimble grinned at him as Draco took his position across from the small man, and he dropped the football in between them. It rolled toward Draco, stopping several feet in front of him.
"Now, Mr. Malfoy, I want you," said Trimble, "to kick that ball to me as hard as you can."
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom had been moved around the castle as often as the wizard teaching the class had changed, and this year was no exception. This year, it was a large room in one of the main corridors of the school. One entire wall of the room was a bank of windows, etched with tiny designs and decorative runes. There were delicately embroidered tapestries of blue, silver, red, and green on the solid walls, and the floors were made of a darkly stained wood panel.
Desks were arranged in long rows facing a low desk in front of the grand bank of windows, and this table was empty save several stacks of textbooks, the register parchment, and a simple quill.
Harry arrived with a gaggle of Gryffindors, who sat to one side. Harry sat in the opposite corner. The place on their schedule which should have listed the professor's name had been left blank, and the students who were gathered in the brightly lit room were already whispering their guesses as to whom the Headmaster had brought in this year. The Gryffindors Harry had come in with joined the conversation eagerly; Harry, however, remained silent.
The time came when the room had, for the most part, filled, and the lesson should have been started. But still, there was no professor. The students continued to gossip amongst themselves, but Harry stared out the window.
It was a glorious day; he wanted so much to be on his broomstick, soaring with a small flock of sparrows ducking and weaving on the breeze. Clouds wisped by in jolly pairs, and the grass rippled on the lawn below.
He brought himself back inside. Wishing he were outside would only make the lesson feel longer - if the professor ever appeared, Harry thought distantly.
Admiring the light room, Harry dropped his gaze to a corner filmed in shadow; he smiled suddenly, for there, lying peacefully with his heavy head resting on his paws, was a shaggy black dog. The creature's hazy blue eyes watched the class serenely, and when he noticed Harry's smile, he lifted his head. A large, pink tongue lolled out of his mouth, and he sat up with a very canine grin.
The dog got to his large paws, and without his claws so much as clicking on the cold stone floor, padded to the front of the classroom to stand beside the large desk situated there. In the slanting blocks of clean white sunshine, the animal's fur gleamed, his teeth glinted. With a mischievous look at Harry, the dog vanished, leaving in his place a tall, roguish man.
For a moment, no one noticed, and then - "Oh, oh - !"
The room fell into a low, mumbling whisper of surprise, dropping off into silence moments later. Thirty-seven pairs of eyes were focused in on the man at the front of the room - the newest Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Sirius Black.
Though Black had been cleared of the murder of James and Lily Potter, and though he had been deemed fit to re-enter the wizarding community after staying in Azkaban for well over a decade, many were made nervous by the thought of the man. It is always difficult, after all, to erase fifteen years' convictions that Black was indeed a murderer and in league with the Dark Lord.
But those who were squeamish did not show it; in the front row of desks, Ron and Hermione smiled knowingly to one another, and across the room, Harry admired the devil-may-care expression in his godfather's eyes. Behind him, Harry could hear the Hufflepuffs quivering in their chairs; the Ravenclaws breathing softly, awe-struck with wonder; and the Slytherins smirking shamelessly, passing looks in between them which said quite plainly, I'm not afraid.
"My dear seventh years," Black began, "welcome to the best days you'll have ever spent at Hogwarts. The people you choose to spend time with now quite realistically may be those with whom you spend most of the rest of your lives - at work, at home, at play."
He was a burly man, his tall frame having filled out since his release from a fugitive life. His robes were simple, black, and clean, edged with blue and white; there was a shadow of stubble gracing his square jaw and chin, and his hair fell in thick waves over his forehead.
Every word he spoke was clear, and the students clung to every syllable he uttered, yet his tone was gruff and round and slightly hollow to hear.
"My name is Professor Black, and I will be teaching you to defend yourselves against the Dark Arts," he said kindly, his hands clasped behind his back. Harry assumed he was holding his wand there, and would soon show them something impressive. "I understand that you have been without much direction in this area, between professors hosting the Dark Lord beneath their turbans, air-headed egoists with no real knowledge, and imposters pretending to be highly excitable aurors."
He smiled in spite of himself; several Ravenclaws and Hermione chuckled at his words. The Slytherins' haughty, stubborn expressions echoed through the room: I'm not afraid.
"So you've studied the Unforgivables. You've covered most of the creatures you should be worried about - kappa, Dementors, werewolves?"
"Ah, you're forgotten the Cornish pixies, professor," called Seamus Finnegan, who snickered beside Dean Thomas. Neville Longbottom, sitting behind, even managed an honest smile.
Black grinned. "Of course, the pixies, how could I have forgotten? Let's see . . . You've learned several of the myths and legends, naturally, the Chamber of Secrets and such."
"Myth?" interrupted Ron, his cheeks blossoming pink. "Sir, I've seen the Chamber opened. That's no myth, that's the truth."
"Yes, of course, but it was a myth long before you watched it open, Mr. Weasley. In my generation, no one had known for sure that it had existed, and therefore it is still myth to me." He apologized with his eyes. "I'm getting old, I fear."
The professor rounded the desk and sat down upon it, perched with arms crossed and knees far apart. One of the Hufflepuff girls swooned, and Lavender Brown blushed. Black ignored it.
"Now, I don't want to cover anything you've already been over. If I begin to repeat anything, tell me and we'll move on right away." He paused. "I want you to be equipped to truly defend yourself against the Dark Arts, as the name of this class states.
"There are times when you could very well be put in a situation when you will have no time to think over the situation. Your enemy will not want to stop and think before he acts, he will hex you - kill you, even, or mean to - before he stops to notice who you are or what you could possibly want with him.
"You need, therefore, to be prepared to cast a spell first, ask questions later - without harming the opposing party, unless absolutely necessary. It is far better to knock someone out before realizing that he wants nothing of you than to seriously injure or destroy them before realize what you've done. The Ministry does not take mistakes lightly.
"Today, however," concluded the professor, "because it is our first day of many together, I believe I will just take role. After that, I'm sure you would all like to ask me a few questions, and I would be partial to answering them if you're courageous enough."
He took role, quite uneventfully. He made no indication at the sound of Harry's name on the register, and he marked down no one as absent from his lesson.
"Who would like to start us out?" he asked brightly, laying aside the parchment and quill. "I will answer anything you can throw at me, to the best of my knowledge."
There was a pause as the class looked to one another for the courage to ask the questions which were writhing just beneath their lips.
Finally, one Ravenclaw boy called out, "How did you do that?"
"Do what?" There was an indulgent smile on the man's scruffy face and a twinkle in his eye.
"Appear at the front of the room without the rest of us noticing you'd arrived," explained Hermione, rolling her eyes at the boy, though a smile spread over her mouth.
"Oh. Excellent," he said. "One reason is the obvious - we as a society, Muggles and wizards alike, are very much obsessed with themselves. We as individuals are absorbed in our every movement, every word. You did not see me arrive because you were wrapped up in yourselves, preening yourselves in your classmates' eyes."
Mild indignation rippled through the room. Black laughed aloud, the sound rich and deep and ringing off of the glass and stone of the walls.
"No, no, don't worry, and don't be insulted. Every one of us is our only truth. That, in fact, is one of the things I want to work with you on this year - listening to the world around you."
He gave the class a moment to settle down, and he said, "Had you been paying attention, you would have noticed a large animal in the room." His eyes stared at the back wall of the room, his brow furrowing, and heads turned quickly - when every head in the room was turned save for Harry's, Black transfigured himself into the dog with whom Harry had interacted earlier in the hour.
The class' attention returned to the front of the room - where a regal black dog now sat, grinning, on the desk. The students uttered a collective gasp; the dog returned to its human form, fur falling in a light cloud around him, and the man chuckled at their goggling expressions.
"Are you registered with the Ministry?" cried an outraged Slytherin girl, and Black nodded, his hair flopping forward and back again.
"I am now, yes. Before I was cleared of the murder charges, I was not, and that was how I evaded the Ministry's notice for the years following my escape from Azkaban in your third year. They made me register with them, of course, before I was declared fit to live among you again."
"Are you married?" asked the swooning Hufflepuff girl, and Black frowned.
"Absolutely not," he replied. "I would not marry for all the Galleons in Gringotts."
"Why not?" called the girl beside the Hufflepuff.
"Too restricting." He grinned, and for a moment it was not too difficult for Harry to imagine him a hell-raising seventh year, marauding with his dad and Professor Lupin. "But I am seeing someone, if it's all the same to you."
The girls fluttered and moaned in their disappointment; the professor glanced at the gold wristwatch glinting beneath the cuff of his robes, and sighed.
"Well, there is not much time left, I'm afraid, in today's lesson. I've gone and talked entirely too long, but I'm sure you don't mind." He looked around the room, face to face, and grabbed a book from atop the desk.
Skimming through the first few pages, he added, "For next time, I would like you all to read the introduction in your textbooks, please, and be ready for a discussion over the material then. It would behoove you also to look over the first chapter - though it isn't necessary for you to participate next time.
"Congratulations," he said in a rapid afterthought, "on being my first class at Hogwarts. I suppose, then, if there are no more questions from you -" he looked around the room, and saw no one - "you free to go."
The students, discussing the lesson amongst them, gathered their books and began to file out of the room. Harry followed at a much slower pace, and as he was joining the column of seventh years making their way toward the door at the rear of the room, the professor called after him.
"Ah, Mr. Potter, if I may have a word?"
Harry turned, catching the somber note in his godfather's familiar voice, and began the walk toward the front of the room once more. "Yes, Professor."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------* May I mention, Morghaine, that whenever I read your reviews, I gurgle and find myself in an entirely too giddy sort of mood? You would think that finding a brilliant piece of work would make you the happiest child on earth, but finding one of your reviews is even better, believe me. I need some way to reward reviewers - if anyone has an idea, do share! I feel I need to give back to the masses in some way. :D
IV., in which Colin wakes up, Muggle Studies holds its first lesson, and the new DADA professor reveals himself in a quite unorthidox way.
When he woke in the morning, his first thoughts were of Harry. He lay for several long, drowsy moments in his bed, surrounded by the yards upon yards of aging red velvet and moth-eaten gold satin of the curtains on his bed, wondering if Harry, too, was just waking to the thick, honey-yellow sunlight of mid-morning.
Or if, perhaps, Harry had long since climbed down from the tall four-poster in his own seventh-year dormitory room, stretched his slender arms out behind him with a great yawn before slipping in and out of the moldering old showers in the Gryffindor boys' bathrooms; tossed on a pair of his old grass-stained Quidditch corduroys and the matching blood-red sweater with its pinstripe of gold across his chest, throwing his broomstick over one shoulder (quite dashingly, of course, not bothering with the smudges on his glasses or the dishevelment of his hair); dashing onto the pitch just as dawn broke over the trees, all of which were aflame in their autumn glory; that same messy, moppish hair rippling brilliantly in the breeze which also stained his pale cheeks rosy pink, and made him squint as he searched for the tiny, fluttering Snitch he had loosed moments earlier for a bit of light practice.
Or if Harry was still in bed, sleeping, glasses sitting were he had carefully placed them the night before, on the edge of his bedside table; his eyelashes a harsh line of spider-leg stitches on the pristine length of his pallid cheek, his breath hot on the pillow and his fingertips twitching nearby from dreams which made him nervous; his hair would be spread out like the wing of a flying crow against the pure white linen, the shadows lining his face would be innocent and grey, all trapped between the dry, warm skin of Harry and the heavy, dusty fabric of his curtains, which would be drawn closed against the other seventh-years in the dorm, and against his nightmares.
He sighed into his own heavy blood-and-glory curtains, into the shadows lurking in the corners of the canopy and the soft carvings of the tall, round posts above him.
No, Harry was none of these, though surely he was awake and dressed for the day. Harry Potter did not wake up early for Quidditch practice on Saturdays, nor did he laze about in bed. More likely he was probably somewhere in between - enjoying the velveteen warmth of a tatty old armchair and a steaming mug of hot cocoa in the common room, sitting at breakfast in the Great Hall (though, he thought shrewdly, Harry would not be eating, for the nth meal since he arrived at the school), picking through the library shelves under the careful and gleaming eyes of Madam Pince, or visiting old Hagrid out in his tiny stonework hut on the edge of the Dark Forest.
The boy momentarily forgot Harry Potter as he showered, dressed, and combed his soft blond hair. But when he turned to his dresser, on top of which lay his wonderful old camera, whose flash bulb still sparkled and shone in the bright light from the windows as though it had been bought just yesterday, his focus immediately returned to Harry.
Strapping the camera around himself, he tested the lens for a moment, peering through its window in the same adoring and quietly awed fashion which he had during his first year at Hogwarts, when every picture taken had been sent home to his dad, and he snapped off a few pictures of the sixth-year dormitory to get the old thing warmed up.
Today, it seemed, was to be a stalking day for Colin Creevey.
Breakfast that morning was an airy and cheerful affair, sausages steaming in their small silver plates, pitchers of pumpkin and orange juices gleaming in the yellow sunlight which poured in through the Great Hall's high, elegant windows, and the sparkling eyes of many grinning youths lighting up the entire room, right to the very rafters.
But for Harry, this was merely another chance for him to be ignored by his peers. He poked at the meager helping on his plate with the gold-plated tines of his fork, his knuckles propping up his pale cheek as he leaned to one side on the table. The conversation around him - centered mostly on Seamus, Neville, and Dean's comparisons of this year's girls at Hogwarts - drifted in and through his ears, and he understood it all, but was barely paying attention. Thoughts formed and disappeared again in his brain, some connected to the chatter surrounding him, some utterly baffling as to their origin.
It was not until Seamus jabbed him harshly in the ribs with the stack of the term's new schedules that Harry was awakened from the quasi-trance he had formerly been under, and he found the slip of paper with his name on it quickly before passing the remaining pile on its way down the long table.
The first class of the term for Harry, starting just after lunch ended, was Transfigurations with the Hufflepuffs, followed by Charms. Because it was the first day of the term, and classes began in the afternoon, everyone only had the two classes that day. But the rest of the week, Harry's lessons were divided into groups of three, one in the morning, two in the afternoon.
He looked at the course titles casually, expecting the usual round of classes. Indeed, he would be taking Transfiguration, Herbology, Charms, and - his least favorite class of them all - Potions. He would also be subject to sitting through History of Magic with Professor Binns, the only ghost on the faculty, up to three times a week, but he was by this time used to the dull nature of each lesson with the specter.
There was, however, one course which came as quite a surprise to Harry. He had been placed in a Muggle Studies class. His mind suddenly came awake. Surely Professor McGonagall knew that he had been raised a Muggle?
Immediately, Harry climbed from the long bench beside the Gryffindor table, and he approached the stern old professor, who was at this time speaking with a trembling first-year girl at the very end of the table.
"Excuse me, Professor?"
"One moment, please, Mr. Potter.... Yes, yes, you're absolutely correct, Miss Price, see me after lunch is through and I'll fix that right away for you. No first year at this school would ever be expected to study Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, and Divination all at the same time, no." The woman turned to face Harry, and as she did so, her watery old eyes lit up at the sight of him. "Ah, Mr. Potter, it is good to see you again. How were your holidays?"
"They were fine, Professor, but I need to ask you about this - "
Professor McGonagall snatched the paper from his hands, leaning back slightly to catch the words just right in her small glasses. She nodded, glancing back at him. "And what exactly is the problem with this course schedule, Mr. Potter? I see nothing wrong with it."
"Well, it's just that I've been put in a Muggle Studies course, Professor, and I was just curious about it, because I lived with the Dursleys for so long, and - "
"Oh, yes, naturally. You see, Mr. Potter, in reviewing the courses you had previously selected at the end of last term, I realized that you had selected several extremely difficult lessons. I only arranged it so that you would have more free time, less stress and pressure to study instead of, for example, practicing on the Quidditch pitch." Her eyes glittered kindly in the sunlight. "We wouldn't want our star Seeker becoming too unfocused on the Snitch, now would we?"
Harry gaped, his mouth quivering open and closed again in quiet succession.
"Precisely. Having this Muggle Studies course will not only be a much lighter workload for you, but it will also give you a view of your childhood world which you have not previously seen. I believe it will be quite refreshing for you. Now, go on, finish your meal, Mr. Potter," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I shall see you in class later today, hm?" She smiled, adding, "If you really want to consider changing the class, you are perfectly welcome to stop by my office later to choose a different course in its place. Now, if you will be so kind ...?" She turned away, back to another first year with a rather loud question about the sort of homework load he would be expecting with so many classes in his schedule.
Harry, dumbfounded, made his way back to his seat beside Seamus, but he could not lift his fork. Conversation went on around him. Food was passed before him, but his appetite was not stirred by it. Sunlight winked and glared off of chalices and pitchers all around him, but he did not notice.
Suddenly it had become quite clear to him that, while they appeared to understand the world in all its confused state and wonders, professors at Hogwarts, like the students, were simply trying their best to do the right thing as the days rolled by. The thought struck him as quite funny, but as he took his place once again beside Seamus at the table, he looked up at the long Head Table, and he realized that every one of the adults seated there was fallible. With, of course, the exception of Snape, Harry felt his affection for the crumbling school and its entire population swell slightly.
With an odd little smile on his thin face, he managed to finish a piece of toast spread with marmalade, more breakfast than he had eaten for most of the summer.
When Draco arrived at the door of his first class of the term, he found clipped neatly to the door with a thin length of clear tape, which was curiously made of a very foreign, gleaming material, a note.
We'll be on the lawn next to Greenhouse 5, it read in an odd sort of black ink, Do come out and join us. It was signed one Professor Trimble, and Draco raised a pallid eyebrow skeptically.
Most professors at Hogwarts were elderly and quite cross, or of middling years, stern, and embittered by the flippant nature of their students. To leave an entire class of students - especially students of varying ages, from the tiny third-years to Draco himself, in his seventh - was unfathomable. Draco assessed that the professor must have been new this year, or he was quite unpredictable indeed.
And his handwriting, all of those squat, curling letters, implied that he was relatively relaxed and possibly quite creative. Draco smiled to himself; perhaps this class was to be slightly simpler than he had been anticipating.
He carried himself haughtily on down to the lawn, a gently sloping cloak of verdant green hovering just slightly over the lawn. His robes rippled out behind him; his hair was tossed in a teasing bray of wind, and he hesitated for just a moment as he watched the small figure of the professor hopping about excitedly as he spoke with two of the smaller students.
Most of the class, Draco assumed, had already assembled on the lawn; many girls were sitting on the gentle incline which lead up to the fenced-in greenhouses above, their legs pulled in close to them as they watched the boys stand in a broken circle. Draco approached, casually joining the assembly from behind. He stood away from the rest, by himself, studying his classmates' faces. He was the only seventh-year.
"Ah," said the professor, his keen eyes landing on Draco, "good of you to make it, Mr. Malfoy." Draco, slightly taken aback, masked his surprise as an expression of quiet indignation. "Please, join our little circle. Girls," he added in a good-natured shout, "Oi, yes, you - please stand with us. I have something to show you."
The professor was a small, spindly young gentleman with a shock of blond hair which strongly reminded Draco of a vain Defense Against the Dark Arts professor five years removed from the school. He was not wearing the dull, straight-cut robes of his colleague professors, no; he was dressed in completely Muggle fashion. The sleeves of his dress shirt, pale yellow, were rolled to his elbows, and his trousers were creased neatly down the front and hemmed with inch-wide cuffs at his ankles. There were ink pens in his pocket - Muggle ink pens, ball-point and inexpensive, not the shining fountain pens which had become so popular among adult wizards in London - and a shining silver wristwatch dangling on his wrist. His shoes were leather, brown, and tied with odd little brown strings, strings which had at either end a small cuff of a glinting material.
He produced from the scuffed duffel bag at his feet one perfectly round, white ball. The seams of the ball formed dozens of the small, geometric shape which Draco could not name, despite his desperate internal struggle to remember such trivial information. His father had taught him what shape that was, with its eight perfect sides and gaping angles.
"This," the professor said, holding up the ball with one of his wide, flat hands, "is a football."
One of the smallest students, a boy Draco would have placed in Ravenclaw or even Slytherin, crinkled his little nose and said loudly, "Well, what does it do?"
The professor looked around at the students, his small blue eyes twinkling sharply as he absorbed their blank, confused expressions. Draco, standing alone on the outskirts of the little group, jammed his hands into the pockets of his robes and smirked.
"Oh, Mr. Malfoy," said the professor lightly, the football now resting between his thin waist and his wrist, which hung lazily by his side. "Come and help me demonstrate exactly how this little puppy works, would you please?"
"But professor," objected Draco somewhat stiffly, "I am no professional football player. I don't even know what it is, how to play, the rules of the game. There's got to be someone here who even remotely knows the rules?"
The small man considered this, looking around the class. He shrugged, the lights of his eyes finding again Draco's face. "Nope, I think I would rather see you up here, kicking the ball around with me. I'll explain as we go." Draco did not move; the man's jovial expression hardened. "Mr. Malfoy, perhaps I was not making myself very clear to you. Perhaps your Head of House would be able to explain if better, were I to speak with him? Please, join me in front of the class."
Several of the girls tittered; several of the boys chuckled, rubbing elbows with a knowing glance between them. Draco ignored them all as he strode through the class, who backed aside to create a path for him as he did.
Professor Trimble grinned at him as Draco took his position across from the small man, and he dropped the football in between them. It rolled toward Draco, stopping several feet in front of him.
"Now, Mr. Malfoy, I want you," said Trimble, "to kick that ball to me as hard as you can."
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom had been moved around the castle as often as the wizard teaching the class had changed, and this year was no exception. This year, it was a large room in one of the main corridors of the school. One entire wall of the room was a bank of windows, etched with tiny designs and decorative runes. There were delicately embroidered tapestries of blue, silver, red, and green on the solid walls, and the floors were made of a darkly stained wood panel.
Desks were arranged in long rows facing a low desk in front of the grand bank of windows, and this table was empty save several stacks of textbooks, the register parchment, and a simple quill.
Harry arrived with a gaggle of Gryffindors, who sat to one side. Harry sat in the opposite corner. The place on their schedule which should have listed the professor's name had been left blank, and the students who were gathered in the brightly lit room were already whispering their guesses as to whom the Headmaster had brought in this year. The Gryffindors Harry had come in with joined the conversation eagerly; Harry, however, remained silent.
The time came when the room had, for the most part, filled, and the lesson should have been started. But still, there was no professor. The students continued to gossip amongst themselves, but Harry stared out the window.
It was a glorious day; he wanted so much to be on his broomstick, soaring with a small flock of sparrows ducking and weaving on the breeze. Clouds wisped by in jolly pairs, and the grass rippled on the lawn below.
He brought himself back inside. Wishing he were outside would only make the lesson feel longer - if the professor ever appeared, Harry thought distantly.
Admiring the light room, Harry dropped his gaze to a corner filmed in shadow; he smiled suddenly, for there, lying peacefully with his heavy head resting on his paws, was a shaggy black dog. The creature's hazy blue eyes watched the class serenely, and when he noticed Harry's smile, he lifted his head. A large, pink tongue lolled out of his mouth, and he sat up with a very canine grin.
The dog got to his large paws, and without his claws so much as clicking on the cold stone floor, padded to the front of the classroom to stand beside the large desk situated there. In the slanting blocks of clean white sunshine, the animal's fur gleamed, his teeth glinted. With a mischievous look at Harry, the dog vanished, leaving in his place a tall, roguish man.
For a moment, no one noticed, and then - "Oh, oh - !"
The room fell into a low, mumbling whisper of surprise, dropping off into silence moments later. Thirty-seven pairs of eyes were focused in on the man at the front of the room - the newest Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Sirius Black.
Though Black had been cleared of the murder of James and Lily Potter, and though he had been deemed fit to re-enter the wizarding community after staying in Azkaban for well over a decade, many were made nervous by the thought of the man. It is always difficult, after all, to erase fifteen years' convictions that Black was indeed a murderer and in league with the Dark Lord.
But those who were squeamish did not show it; in the front row of desks, Ron and Hermione smiled knowingly to one another, and across the room, Harry admired the devil-may-care expression in his godfather's eyes. Behind him, Harry could hear the Hufflepuffs quivering in their chairs; the Ravenclaws breathing softly, awe-struck with wonder; and the Slytherins smirking shamelessly, passing looks in between them which said quite plainly, I'm not afraid.
"My dear seventh years," Black began, "welcome to the best days you'll have ever spent at Hogwarts. The people you choose to spend time with now quite realistically may be those with whom you spend most of the rest of your lives - at work, at home, at play."
He was a burly man, his tall frame having filled out since his release from a fugitive life. His robes were simple, black, and clean, edged with blue and white; there was a shadow of stubble gracing his square jaw and chin, and his hair fell in thick waves over his forehead.
Every word he spoke was clear, and the students clung to every syllable he uttered, yet his tone was gruff and round and slightly hollow to hear.
"My name is Professor Black, and I will be teaching you to defend yourselves against the Dark Arts," he said kindly, his hands clasped behind his back. Harry assumed he was holding his wand there, and would soon show them something impressive. "I understand that you have been without much direction in this area, between professors hosting the Dark Lord beneath their turbans, air-headed egoists with no real knowledge, and imposters pretending to be highly excitable aurors."
He smiled in spite of himself; several Ravenclaws and Hermione chuckled at his words. The Slytherins' haughty, stubborn expressions echoed through the room: I'm not afraid.
"So you've studied the Unforgivables. You've covered most of the creatures you should be worried about - kappa, Dementors, werewolves?"
"Ah, you're forgotten the Cornish pixies, professor," called Seamus Finnegan, who snickered beside Dean Thomas. Neville Longbottom, sitting behind, even managed an honest smile.
Black grinned. "Of course, the pixies, how could I have forgotten? Let's see . . . You've learned several of the myths and legends, naturally, the Chamber of Secrets and such."
"Myth?" interrupted Ron, his cheeks blossoming pink. "Sir, I've seen the Chamber opened. That's no myth, that's the truth."
"Yes, of course, but it was a myth long before you watched it open, Mr. Weasley. In my generation, no one had known for sure that it had existed, and therefore it is still myth to me." He apologized with his eyes. "I'm getting old, I fear."
The professor rounded the desk and sat down upon it, perched with arms crossed and knees far apart. One of the Hufflepuff girls swooned, and Lavender Brown blushed. Black ignored it.
"Now, I don't want to cover anything you've already been over. If I begin to repeat anything, tell me and we'll move on right away." He paused. "I want you to be equipped to truly defend yourself against the Dark Arts, as the name of this class states.
"There are times when you could very well be put in a situation when you will have no time to think over the situation. Your enemy will not want to stop and think before he acts, he will hex you - kill you, even, or mean to - before he stops to notice who you are or what you could possibly want with him.
"You need, therefore, to be prepared to cast a spell first, ask questions later - without harming the opposing party, unless absolutely necessary. It is far better to knock someone out before realizing that he wants nothing of you than to seriously injure or destroy them before realize what you've done. The Ministry does not take mistakes lightly.
"Today, however," concluded the professor, "because it is our first day of many together, I believe I will just take role. After that, I'm sure you would all like to ask me a few questions, and I would be partial to answering them if you're courageous enough."
He took role, quite uneventfully. He made no indication at the sound of Harry's name on the register, and he marked down no one as absent from his lesson.
"Who would like to start us out?" he asked brightly, laying aside the parchment and quill. "I will answer anything you can throw at me, to the best of my knowledge."
There was a pause as the class looked to one another for the courage to ask the questions which were writhing just beneath their lips.
Finally, one Ravenclaw boy called out, "How did you do that?"
"Do what?" There was an indulgent smile on the man's scruffy face and a twinkle in his eye.
"Appear at the front of the room without the rest of us noticing you'd arrived," explained Hermione, rolling her eyes at the boy, though a smile spread over her mouth.
"Oh. Excellent," he said. "One reason is the obvious - we as a society, Muggles and wizards alike, are very much obsessed with themselves. We as individuals are absorbed in our every movement, every word. You did not see me arrive because you were wrapped up in yourselves, preening yourselves in your classmates' eyes."
Mild indignation rippled through the room. Black laughed aloud, the sound rich and deep and ringing off of the glass and stone of the walls.
"No, no, don't worry, and don't be insulted. Every one of us is our only truth. That, in fact, is one of the things I want to work with you on this year - listening to the world around you."
He gave the class a moment to settle down, and he said, "Had you been paying attention, you would have noticed a large animal in the room." His eyes stared at the back wall of the room, his brow furrowing, and heads turned quickly - when every head in the room was turned save for Harry's, Black transfigured himself into the dog with whom Harry had interacted earlier in the hour.
The class' attention returned to the front of the room - where a regal black dog now sat, grinning, on the desk. The students uttered a collective gasp; the dog returned to its human form, fur falling in a light cloud around him, and the man chuckled at their goggling expressions.
"Are you registered with the Ministry?" cried an outraged Slytherin girl, and Black nodded, his hair flopping forward and back again.
"I am now, yes. Before I was cleared of the murder charges, I was not, and that was how I evaded the Ministry's notice for the years following my escape from Azkaban in your third year. They made me register with them, of course, before I was declared fit to live among you again."
"Are you married?" asked the swooning Hufflepuff girl, and Black frowned.
"Absolutely not," he replied. "I would not marry for all the Galleons in Gringotts."
"Why not?" called the girl beside the Hufflepuff.
"Too restricting." He grinned, and for a moment it was not too difficult for Harry to imagine him a hell-raising seventh year, marauding with his dad and Professor Lupin. "But I am seeing someone, if it's all the same to you."
The girls fluttered and moaned in their disappointment; the professor glanced at the gold wristwatch glinting beneath the cuff of his robes, and sighed.
"Well, there is not much time left, I'm afraid, in today's lesson. I've gone and talked entirely too long, but I'm sure you don't mind." He looked around the room, face to face, and grabbed a book from atop the desk.
Skimming through the first few pages, he added, "For next time, I would like you all to read the introduction in your textbooks, please, and be ready for a discussion over the material then. It would behoove you also to look over the first chapter - though it isn't necessary for you to participate next time.
"Congratulations," he said in a rapid afterthought, "on being my first class at Hogwarts. I suppose, then, if there are no more questions from you -" he looked around the room, and saw no one - "you free to go."
The students, discussing the lesson amongst them, gathered their books and began to file out of the room. Harry followed at a much slower pace, and as he was joining the column of seventh years making their way toward the door at the rear of the room, the professor called after him.
"Ah, Mr. Potter, if I may have a word?"
Harry turned, catching the somber note in his godfather's familiar voice, and began the walk toward the front of the room once more. "Yes, Professor."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------* May I mention, Morghaine, that whenever I read your reviews, I gurgle and find myself in an entirely too giddy sort of mood? You would think that finding a brilliant piece of work would make you the happiest child on earth, but finding one of your reviews is even better, believe me. I need some way to reward reviewers - if anyone has an idea, do share! I feel I need to give back to the masses in some way. :D