As Snape continued to cuss up a storm and generally disparage the Potter name, Harry did not need to be a seer to know things were headed South.
Albus' green eyes narrowed, his irritation visible even through the thick lenses of Harry's glasses. He sat back down at the Headmaster's chair and stared directly at Snape. "Thank you for that piece of intelligence; it answers many questions I had about the root cause of this phenomenon, but truly, Severus, there is no cause for profanity."
Snape's entire body jerked in objection and he carelessly waved his arm; angry, red sparks shot out from his wand in his agitation. As he paced manically throughout the office, his long, black cloak caught on several objects on Albus' shelves, knocking them to the ground. However, if Harry was not mistaken, it seemed there was a layer of fear beneath Snape's outrage. "If ever there were a time for profanity, it is now, Headmaster! May I remind you what exactly Draco Malfoy is tasked with by the Dark Lord? A task which now has become significantly less difficult for him to see to fruition!"
Harry probably should have cared more than he did at the moment about Malfoy's mysterious task, but he was just so tired.
He saw the same exhaustion mirrored in Albus, who could hardly hold his head up. Albus' head was propped up by his forearm, his fist underneath his chin. He looked close to falling asleep while sitting. Even so, Albus rallied. "I understand that this development has been surprising to you Severus, but I assure you that our shock and inconvenience are far greater. We have adjusted as best we can, and have carried on in our fight against Voldemort. As disconcerting and difficult as it may be, you must now do the same."
Snape paused in his pacing, and whirled to face Albus in a sudden, dramatic movement that had his black hair flying as well. He narrowed his dark eyes. "Who else knows of this?"
"You, and one other," said Albus with a faint smile, "One who is bound to silence. Imagine my surprise and delight upon realizing that none of my friends and acquaintances at the ICW, many of whom I've known since the end of the second World War, had even the slightest suspicion that I was not who I appeared to be."
Snape, ever the misanthrope, looked disgusted by humanity's collective intelligence. "How long have you been in a state of…transmigration?"
"One week to the day."
"And the boy has told no one else?"
"Of course not," said Harry, weary indignation in his voice. "I know this is important."
"Dear Merlin, Potter, you can be taught," said Snape nastily. Snape's face twisted in disgust, and Harry was reminded that the man hated him in his very soul. "Forgive my surprise when you have been the walking, lackluster, mortifying proof that not only our education systems do not work, but that famous Harry Potter has no common sense. I have suspected something was amiss since the ICW speech. You have never—"
Harry felt that familiar anger and humiliation he always felt around Snape—a tension in his gut and a heat in his face that made him drop his eyes.
"Enough!" shouted Albus, to the apparent surprise of Harry and Snape both. Snape fell silent. The portraits rattled in the office, and when Albus spoke next, his voice was glacial and unyielding. He narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists. "Severus, I know that eliciting people's hatred is your preferred form of masochism, but I will not hear another slight against Harry. Your treatment of him has been deplorable."
Harry wondered what memories were flickering through Albus' mind, just as surely as Harry had seen flashes of his.
("Well, it may have escaped your notice, but life isn't fair.")
("Tut, tut — fame clearly isn't everything.")
("…famous Harry Potter is a law unto himself. Let the ordinary people worry about his safety! Famous Harry Potter goes where he wants to, with no thought for the consequences.")
("I see no difference.")
Like a tongue of lightning, darkness flickered through Snape's eyes, and he did not answer.
"What, and ruin the perfectly good animosity we have between us?" said Harry, voice light, but he was silently pleading Albus with all he had not to write him off.
Sorrow coursed through Albus' expression, and his tone was one of both apology and righteousness. "I have become forcefully acquainted with the consequences and magnitude of my many mistakes, and I will correct one more. You have done enough damage, Severus, and I will not allow for it to continue any longer. If you must interact with Harry, you will do so with utmost professionalism. Never again will I tolerate the cruelty you have shown to Harry or any of our other students here at Hogwarts."
Harry could swear he felt a tangible shift in their dynamics. Even more unexpected was the shock that quickly covered Snape's face before his expression became customarily inscrutable. Harry felt both gratitude for the shift in Albus' change in attitude, and irritation that this had come so late. Snape had been a rotten person to many others besides him, for many long and painful years. It was undoubtedly a start though.
"As you say," said Snape eventually in a clipped voice, before turning on heel and leaving with the enthusiasm of a demon crawling out from the pits of hell.
"It's all in the eyes," said Harry in resignation, when the two of them were once again alone. "Snape's going to murder me in my sleep."
"No," said Albus, with quiet conviction. "You are safe with me Harry. Any who attempt to harm you will face my wrath, and none will succeed."
Not entirely agreeing with that declaration, Harry merely nodded in acknowledgment.
Albus noticed, of course, and merely sighed in acceptance. "I do have an appointment with Madame Marchbanks and others shortly. I will be back by tomorrow evening; you may rest at Hogwarts."
"That sounds nice," said Harry, before closing his eyes and falling asleep on the spot.
September 1, 1995
No, Harry. It was not Bella Ciao.
That would have been: do de di da do, do de di da do, do de di da, da di da, da di DA DA DA.
Tiredly,
Xeno Lovegood
Under a ceiling of stars, Dennis Creevey had to stop his eyes from darting to constellations. Even though it was his third year at Hogwarts, he was still in awe of magic. He remembered the feeling of reverence, that stars were twinkling over him as he sat on a small stool, hundreds of curious eyes on him. He remembered being eleven, a hat on his head, and not being able to see anything, so far past his eyes did the Sorting Hat drop.
(There had been a voice in his head: "Oh, yes, another Creevey. But what do we have here—"
"Not Gryffindor, not Gryffindor, I'm my own person, please—"
"Surely there's no place else, you've plenty of wit and promise. Welcome home, Ravenclaw!")
At that moment though, he could hardly wait for the Feast to begin. There had been far too much gossiping on the train ride, and far too few chocolate frogs.
He abruptly forgot his hunger though, when Dumbledore announced that Harry Potter was going to be the Professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Dennis had seen the magical newspapers of course, reporting with a tone of awe despite the allegations of insanity against him, that Harry Potter had absolutely obliterated the records for N.E.W.T. examinations in 12 subjects this summer. Harry Potter had even surpassed Dumbledore's scores, and now held the record for best performance in European history.
Dumbledore sat back down with great flourish and a blinding grin, before Harry Potter stood at the staff table and waved at the students, wiggling each tip of his fingers individually. Was it Dennis' imagination, or did Harry Potter look more healthy and well than ever before? He even seemed to have grown taller over the summer, and his hair was longer than it had been.
At first, you could hear a quill drop. Then, the uproar began, slowly, then all at once.
For all that his best friend, Nigel Scrimgeour, looked tired and disgruntled, the young boy raised an eyebrow at the revelation and let out a low whistle. "Hermione Granger does not look happy about that."
As usual, Nigel was right – the prim, proper witch seemed ready to throw her goblet of pumpkin juice at Potter, who simply looked back at her, unfazed, before sitting and taking a sip of his own. Ron Weasley seemed to fare no better, gaping unflatteringly at the declaration.
Neville Longbottom, oddly enough, was staring like a basilisk at Dumbledore, then Harry, then back to Dumbledore in turn. Weird fellow, thought Dennis.
Nigel craned his head to get a better look and turned back to them, all untamed, curly blond hair and mischief, gossipy brat that he was. "My dad, he's the Minister's brother, y'know, he knows Potter! Apparently Amelia Bones specifically asked Dumbledore to hire Potter as a personal favor! It's part of his Apprentice qualifications, and dad said Potter's as good as good as some Percival Graves fellow at dueling."
"Graves?" asked Dennis, feeling a bit off-kilter.
Nigel nodded, as though he was catching himself. "Oh, he's some old, uppity Auror from the Grindelwald days."
Rebecca Kattan, a third-year witch with sharp eyes and a sharp smile, leaned toward Nigel, intrigued. "Amelia Bones said that?" she asked from across the table, voice low and blue eyes bright. "Potter must be good then, to have Dumbledore use up that political capital."
"Probably," Dennis muttered, eyeing her with curiosity and wariness. "Whatever the reason, we'll figure him out."
Nigel nodded enthusiastically beside him. "Course we will," he puffed out his chest, "We're Ravenclaws for a reason," he said, as though it was really that simple.
Rebecca opened her mouth, as though resigned but still compelled to be the voice of reason, when Dumbledore made a comment that baffled them all.
"If there are any doubts as to Professor Potter's qualifications, it is my pleasure to invite you all to join us early Saturday mornings on the grounds, where he will indulge me in weekly practice duels," he said, voice casual but a knowing gleam of amusement in his sparkling blue eyes. "I have confidence that Professor Potter will keep me on my feet, and I am sure it will be a rich educational experience for all in attendance."
Almost in unison, the entire hall and staff table turned their gaze to the young, green-eyed wizard that Dumbledore just acknowledged.
Potter choked mid-sip, bringing a hand up to dab at his lips; Professor Snape, who had been glowering throughout the night with a tangible malice, immediately brightened and smirked at Potter, looking far too pleased for Dennis's liking.
Dumbledore just sat back, a peaceful King in his ornate seat. He gifted Potter with a serene smile, who glared at him in return with what appeared to be playful ire.
"It'll be a slaughter," said Draco Malfoy, somehow both sneering but anticipatory in vindictive pleasure, his voice loud enough that it carried down to their seats.
Turning to his friends at the Ravenclaw table, Dennis said, "I'm not so sure," and it seemed most of the school was similarly divided by this difference of opinion.
"But he's too fit to die! If Potter were that good we'd have heard of it by now—"
"Yeah, but Dumbledore wants to duel him, and he was the Triwizard Champion—"
"Well maybe Dumbledore just wants word to get back to You-Know-Who that he's not rusty or anything—"
"Hah! More like he wants it getting out to him that Potter is just as good—"
And it was that last one that struck a chord with Dennis, and he was instantly convinced that this was the case. There was something exceptional about Potter this year - power and pain and a fire that refused to die.
"Mum's always saying—"
"Oh, that clears it up. If Frankie's Mummy says so—"
"Watch it, Fenwick. If you're so sure—"
Dennis tuned them out to observe the staff table, seeing the venom in Snape's eyes and the nasty curl of his lips. He was talking to Potter with a haughty air of satisfaction, the Potion's Professor's mouth was moving, then he leaned in close to Potter and Dennis instantly knew he'd said something cruel.
A second later, everyone else did too.
The crystal goblet in Snape's hand shattered… filaments of glistening shards suspended in the air in an oddly beautiful fashion, like time itself stood still. The pieces shone so brightly it almost looked like they captured light, consuming it–
The moment Dennis realized what was happening, every candle in the Hall extinguished in a momentous rush, and it was not just the darkness, but the terrifying sensation that all flame that had ever dared to flicker had been swallowed whole. The absence of all light, all senses. An unbearable, paralyzing feeling that they'd all been burned away with nothing left behind, as though they'd never existed in the first place...
Then, Albus Dumbledore's voice came in the darkness, a single word which re-created the world: "Lumos."
Color and fire and life flashed into being once more, and how was it that in just a few seconds Dennis had forgotten how blinding light can be?
Then he was back, they all were, stunned silent in the Great Hall.
All Dennis' senses were raw, his whole body felt like a fragile, over-exposed nerve. Everything was new and fresh and painful, but all he could do was look at Potter in awe.
Potter was still sitting there, hadn't moved save for his hair, which had grown about an inch in volume, crackling with magic. He too, looked shocked, but then he smiled, a pleased and dangerous little smile that looked completely at odds with his prim clothes and perfect teeth.
That's when Dean Thomas stood, hand over heart. "I love him," he declared loudly, much to the delight of Gryffindor and the irritation of Ginny Weasley. "I fear Professor Potter, but I love him."
It was enough to break the tension, and the whole hall laughed.
Potter looked at Dean with gratitude, and all eyes were on him, so he simply said, "My apologies." Then he turned to Snape, and his words carried. "Perhaps once the Headmaster and I finish on Saturday, Professor Snape and I will have a duel as well. A practical demonstration."
Potter looked at Fred with gratitude, and all eyes were on him, so he simply said, "My apologies." Then he turned to Snape, and his words carried. "Perhaps once the Headmaster and I finish on Saturday, Professor Snape and I will have a duel as well. A practical demonstration."
There was a promise of retribution in him that made Snape's face falter completely, creating a buzz of anticipation among students, excited and hungry at the hint of bad-blood between their teachers.
Then suddenly, it seemed the sound of coins scraping against tables and shuffling out of pockets was repeated from every corner of the room, galleons passing palm to palm as the students placed their bets.
Dennis and Nigel shared a grin and loyally put down five galleons on Potter, already rooting for the young teacher whose hidden depths they'd only glimpsed.
Dennis took note of the other students evaluating Potter, particularly the Slytherins and purebloods who had been trained from birth to look for power, to worship it and envy it. He was hyper-aware of Draco Malfoy's calculating gaze and the ominous mood that swept along the Slytherin table.
Dennis wondered how long it would take for You-Know-Who to hear of this – probably within the hour – and it didn't enrage him as much as he thought it would.
He kinda liked the idea of Potter raising a little hell.
Even McGonagall looked at Professor Potter with interest, before she and Professor Sprout exchanged a few words.
"Holy hell," said Nigel with awe, much to the agreement of those around him. "I can't wait for Potter's first class."
The sentiment rushed through the table of blue and bronze, speculation and anticipation keeping them up late into the night.
Dennis' knee bounced in anticipation as he waited in his seat for the start of Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Profesor Potter wore bright orange robes with black Grims running along the fabric. His dreadful fashion choices made Dennis think he was taking this Apprentice thing a little too seriously.
"How did you do it!?" asked Antonio Moon accusingly, a young, albino boy with a Slytherin tie. Dennis couldn't stand him.
"Obviously," said Potter in a dry imitation of Snape's voice so apt that Dennis nearly twitched, "I am the second coming of Salazar Slytherin, set out to defeat my Heir for so shaming my bloodline."
Moon stared at Potter, flabbergasted.
A few other students giggled. Dennis laughed, delighted.
Professor Potter surveyed the classroom, and even though he couldn't be more than a few years older than them at most, he had strict control of their attention. "If you are under the impression that my primary purpose here is to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, then I must inform you that you are wrong."
This got a reaction from even the Slytherin side of the classroom, though the most they did was raise an eyebrow or two.
"My primary purpose is to prepare you for war."
Dennis grinned. "Oh, he's good," he whispered to Nigel, who nodded fervently.
"After graduation, you will leave the hallowed and protected halls of Hogwarts and enter into a Wizarding World at civil war based on ideologies far older than yourselves. I tell you this because I expect to fight alongside or against the people in this room."
The tension spiked in the room and Dennis marveled at his daring. This wizard.
"In my classroom, you will learn to face your fears and decide what lines you're willing to cross. You will try to root out the difference between good and evil. Perhaps most importantly, you will determine how to maintain your sanity in the midst of madness." He met their eyes one by one, a ruthless and grave promise in his own.
Professor Potter was captivating, and they were rapturous.
"I will be blunt, and tell you that among my many aims, I intend to show you the consequences of facing me in battle, some of which I leave up to your imagination, and the best of which will earn you a stay in Azkaban."
This earned him a few scoffs, but they were fewer and less certain than Dennis expected.
Professor Potter waved his wand and a porcelain bowl appeared on his desk, a shimmering silvery liquid swirling within.
"Who can tell me what this is? And more importantly, who wants to see a basilisk?"
Hands shot up from every direction.
That Harry Potter slayed a basilisk with the Sword of Gryffindor did not seem to deter rumors that Harry Potter was Salazar Slytherin reborn. The idea spread like Fiendfyre into the Slytherin Common Room, and embers of the rumor were carried out by owl. The whispers scorched along the walls of Hogwarts itself as even the portraits considered the thought.
And those rumors could not be traced back to Albus Dumbledore.
Definitely not.
