Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related plot events and characters are the property of JK Rowling.
Summary: PostHogwarts. Harry must deal with the horrors of war, and in doing so he will embrace his heritage and leave a lasting legacy on the world.
A/N: Several readers have brought to my attention that Part 2 is boring. I have two things to say to that: the first is that this story is primarily about life itself, rather than any sort of huge, explicit conflict; the second is that I believe it's more interesting to explore the characters' psyches and find out what makes them tick, and then put them into extraordinary situations. There are many other fanfictions out there with far more action, sex, violence, etc., and if that's what you're looking for, then mine probably isn't the one for you. Just thought I'd put that out there. Enjoy and please review!
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Chapter 23: The Triumvirate
Helen awoke groggy and confused the next day, and the strain she had felt throughout the previous one descended back upon her quickly. She groaned as she sat up, and rubbed her temples wearily. She took a hair tie off her nightstand and pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail, and changed from her sleepwear into a workout outfit. She had a lot of things on her mind, not the least of which was whether or not she should be mad at her father, and she decided that a little physical exertion might help smooth out her jumbled thought processes. She stood, glancing out of the window, and slipped on her worn trainers—she would need new ones soon. Her eyes lingered on the window, and a slight frown crossed her face, more than was already there.
It was still raining slightly, and those same low hanging, gray, annoying clouds covered the whole of the sky. She could see as far as the horizon from her vantage point, and she could not see any breaks in them. It was so much easier to feel better when it was sunny and warm, when the coldness and the dampness weren't weighing her down, but she would just have to take it like everything else. She picked up her wand and made for the exit of her suite; she could have gone to breakfast first, but she did not want to see anyone at the moment. She supposed that she might say or do something rash if she did, and she didn't want to do that. She just wanted to go outside and distract herself for a little while.
As she descended the stairs, she could hear as the rain started coming down harder, and she had to fight back the sardonic laugh that threatened to escape. It was almost as if the weather was mocking her—would she actually go outside in that? The answer was of course yes; she wasn't afraid of a little rain, and the cold air and water might make her head a little less foggy.
"Increpitas Inflecto Forma Veres," she said, quietly, and watched as her wand morphed into the familiar scimitar. She twirled it in her hand once, without really thinking about it, and then held out in front of her. She had never really gotten over how beautiful it actually was; but, of course, with that beauty came deadliness. She knew how expertly she could wield the blade, and how effortless it would be in combat to kill someone with it, but she rarely thought about it in that context. She had never had a chance to test her abilities in a live scenario—mostly, it was just against her father or Dumbledore, who were both slower than her.
Harry could hold his own against her for a long time in purely physical combat, but since his sword was so much more cumbersome, he eventually tired and became sluggish. He only had to make one slip-up, and when he did, he usually found himself on the ground, staring up at the point of her blade. She had always marveled with the seemingly impossible ease that she was able to use it with, because she couldn't explain it. It just seemed natural to her, and she watched the blade as she nonchalantly twirled it quickly in her hand.
As she stepped off the last step onto the floor of the Entrance Hall, she paused for a moment. Her hand dropped to her side, and there was slight clink when the tip came to rest against the stone floor. She took a slow, deep breath, and then let it out with a sigh.
The sword she was holding in her hand was proof of her skills, and the fact that she could manipulate with such authority was proof of her intelligence, tenacity, and drive. She knew that she was brilliant, even though no one would ever hear her brag about it—at least seriously—and that she was in tremendous physical shape. At eighteen, she had a lot going for her; more than any other person her age could say, that was for sure.
She now held a coveted position at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, which she had taken for granted at first. When she found out that no one else had even been considered for the job, she had been both flattered and humbled. She was pleased that Dumbledore would trust her abilities enough to put her in the position to mold the minds of young witches and wizards, but she also realized what a large responsibility it was. She couldn't afford to fool around—not that she ever did, too much—if she wanted to be as successful as she knew she could be, but her current state of mind was not helping that fact.
Before Hermione had come back, to which she had been just as surprised as her father had been, she hadn't really had a care in the world. Sure, her father seemed to be lonely at times, and she wished that he could find someone to share his life with, as he had with Ginny, but in the grand scheme of things, his temperament was much improved over what it had been. And, buried somewhere deep in her soul, was the fear that what had happened to her as a young girl made her somehow less attractive. That hadn't really shown itself until the day before, though, and she still wasn't sure what that meant for her.
But she was digressing. Hermione had come back, and her life had seemed to get far more complicated than it should have. She resented the older woman for what had happened, and she guessed she even resented her father a little for how quickly he had seemed to forget—or forgive—that transgression. To others it probably seemed hypocritical that she was so hard on Hermione, because she wanted her father to be with someone, but his ex-best friend had never been part of that equation. She had never even thought of the possibility, and the truth was, even though the memory of what her father had almost done had stayed with her, the memories of the people and the situations that had caused it had faded.
It wasn't until Hermione had been standing in the doorway of the Great Hall that it had all come crashing back. Everything from that time…her ordeal at the Orphanage, how Harry had saved her, the love she felt from him, and then how he had distanced himself because of his two friends. Part of that had come out when they were in Sicily, before Hermione had arrived, when she'd had the momentary meltdown, remembering with clarity what happened that terrible night.
That had served to facilitate her bitterness for Hermione, because she remembered how caring and open her father had been at first, and how dramatically that had changed over the next year and a half. She had thought that her father would have remembered something of the sort, as well, but apparently he either didn't realize the implications or didn't care, because he became awfully cozy with Hermione very quickly. Helen had been unable to explain it at first, and then had stopped trying. She wasn't going to get into a row with Hermione in Sicily, for her father's sake at least, but she planned to have a nice…chat with her at some point.
She had been surprised when Hermione had come to her the night before, wanting to talk, but that chat was furthest from her mind at the moment. She was furious with her father for insinuating what he had, but upon a closer look, she realized that he really was just trying to look out for her. She had bit his head off, and stormed away, all because of what? She hadn't been able to answer that the night before, but now, standing before the doors to the castle, she thought she knew. Hermione had actually said some useful things the night before, but she hadn't been willing to admit that to her. She just wanted to be left alone.
Hermione had also told her that Harry had showed her the memory of the night of the Orphanage, but that it had been ten years earlier when she'd first come to Hogwarts. Helen wasn't sure how she felt about that…she felt it was almost an invasion of her privacy, but she also knew how hard it must have been for her father to make people understand exactly what he was doing with a little girl in his care. So, on one hand, she was angry with him, but on another, she was not. It only added to the confusion that was swirling around in her mind.
And that brought her back to the subject of just what her problem was. It wasn't that she was afraid of sex…because she wasn't. She was smart and savvy, and knew that sex could be very enjoyable and fulfilling if done with the right person and under the right circumstances. However…she had firsthand experience that the actual physical act of sex was something that many people took for granted, usually with other people, and she felt tainted because of it. She felt somehow…less worthy of partaking in and enjoying it. Paul had no idea about what had happened to her, and she somehow knew, unequivocally, that he would think less of her if he did.
She waved her hand and the door opened up on the deluge; the frown returned as she looked at the pouring rain up close for the first time, but she had come this far, and she didn't feel like going back yet. She could hear voices coming from the Great Hall, and she had to go in the opposite direction of them…so she stepped out into the storm. She was chilled at first, as she moved down the steps and onto the soggy ground, but it soon became a numbness that wasn't only due to the unseasonable cold.
She set herself; her legs were rigid and taut, and upon close inspection, the muscles in her calves and thighs quivered with the leashed power they contained. She put herself in her starting pose, with her scimitar raised slightly, and then slashed it suddenly and violently down. There was a noise sounding like shiiiiing, and it was accentuated with minute pings as the blade smote the raindrops out of its path. She leapt into the air, letting out that raw power she possessed, and did a double front flip, slicing and dicing imaginary foes as she did so. Her hair slapped wetly against her cheek, but she paid it no mind, and continued her quick, fluid movements.
The energy she was rapidly expending was a form of release, and she could tangibly feel the load on her mind lighten somewhat as she did a flying barrel roll, with her sword acting like a scythe. There was something freeing—liberating—about letting herself out like that. It wasn't often that she took full advantage of her physical or mental prowess, and it felt immeasurably good when she did. It made her realize that things weren't all bad, that the world wasn't coming to an end, and that with time she could learn to come to terms with herself and her problems.
She skidded to a halt in the now muddy grass, poised like a panther about to strike, and lunged forward to hit another ghostly enemy. She wasn't prepared for an actual physical object to be in the way, and the striking of her blade on something just as hard rung painfully up through her arms. She stared, bewildered, at the face of her father. He had his sword up before him, and had met her blow.
"Dad…?" she asked, hesitantly. As soon as she had opened her mouth, the rain running down her face had changed course and entered it. She spit it out and returned her eyes to her father's.
"Hey…" he said. "I saw you out here," he continued, looking around at the slop the rain was creating. His eyes briefly went to the sky. "Are you alright?"
Helen didn't respond. Why did he have to interrupt her? It had felt so good to let herself go, with nothing but the rain and the blade to occupy her. Maybe he would understand how she felt if he felt it. She whirled, bringing her scimitar down, and was parried by Harry. He had an incredulous look on his face.
"Helen?"
She did it again, and he parried again, but he had to take a step back under the force of her blow. "No," she ground out, striking at him again, "I'm not ok," and she jumped at him. He raised the Crusader blade just in time, but this time he took several steps back, and winced. He obviously hadn't absorbed that one very well.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, but her only answer was to drive against him another time. She did it thrice successively, and each time he was a little slower in blocking them. A few more times and she would have him…
"Helen, stop!" he said, and ducked as the flat of her blade flew over his head. He finally retaliated, swiping his feet out at her lower legs, but she jumped in plenty of time and brought her blade down upon him. He blocked it, but was pressed to the ground. He was looking at her with something like confusion and shock in his eyes. She was pressing her blade against his with all her might, and her voice came out strained because of it.
"Now do you know what it feels like? Now can you understand how it feels to have no ideas what's going on around you? To feel like everyone's your enemy, and no one cares anymore?"
Her father's was also strained, for the very reason hers was. She could see the muscles bulging in his forearms as he held her sword in check. "I'm not your enemy, Helen. I never have been." She saw…hurt in his eyes. "I don't know what would give you that impression."
"Fervens," she hissed, and watched with some satisfaction as the flames shot out from the metal. She could see the flickering blue and bronze colors reflected in her father's irises. "How could you show Hermione that memory?" she asked. Now that he was here, she had forgotten about the duality of her feelings. She only knew the anger from it.
"What memory?" he asked, and his arms gave about an inch. Helen wasn't physically stronger than him, but her positional advantage and the added power the unlocked sword gave her were slowly eating away at his strength.
"Of the Orphanage!" she said, and she pressed harder yet. Her father grimaced and held his ground, for the moment.
She saw several emotions pass over his face: confusion, realization, and then disbelief. "That's why you're so upset?"
"Shouldn't I be?"
"No, you shouldn't," he said, and his face set in a hard line. "Animus," he added, and the crimson and gold flames shot from his blade, mixing with the flames from hers. They coalesced into a violent, but not dangerous, firestorm. Helen held fast though, and she could tell that it was taking everything her father had to keep her at bay.
"That was my business, Dad," she said, and hated herself for the slight quaver she had heard in her voice. It made her feel weak.
Harry had a helpless look on his face, but she couldn't bring herself to feel sympathy for him. She had too many things raging around in her. All those things she had thought before were coming to the fore now, all at once, and it was hard not to blame someone.
"How do you think that makes me feel, when someone brings up something I had no idea they knew about me?" She watched her father blink as water dripped off one of their swords onto his face.
"It was the only way I could make them understand, Helen," he said, and his voice was very quiet.
"They didn't need to understand! I would have thought their trust in you would have been enough!" she said. She must have struck a chord in him, because she saw a lightning-quick snarl spread across his face. It was gone almost as fast as it had come.
"As we both know, it obviously wasn't," he retorted, and she could hear iron in his voice. His arms gave another inch or so, and his eyes flicked to their swords and then back to hers.
"That…you…it wasn't something she should have known," she said, but her voice lost some of its zeal. She was taking stock of her situation for the first time since he'd come out there, and she realized that she was pressing a sharp metal object down onto her father, who was barely holding her back.
"Is it bothering you that she knew, or are you worried about it for some other reason?" he asked.
She bit her lip. "And what are you doing with Hermione?" she questioned.
"Don't change the subject, Helen."
She sighed, and then all at once dropped the pressure she was putting onto him. She stepped back and watched as he slowly extricated himself from the wet and muddy ground. The blades, still burning bright, caused the rain around them to sparkle in four hues. She just stood there, looking at the ground, waiting for him to say something—to reproach her, to question her, something.
"Are you angry at me…or are you scared about something?" he eventually asked.
After her little show of anger she decided that being as forthright as possible would be for the best. "I'm not angry with you Dad…I never really was. Just a little confused, and maybe disappointed, too."
"You're disappointed about Hermione and I?"
"No…ok, a little…but I'm disappointed with myself." She brushed some wet strands off her face, and looked up from the ground. His eyes were scrutinizing her intensely, but his face had become tender and compassionate
"How could you ever be? You're smart, beautiful, athletic…"
"And bloody used," she spat, and clenched her jaw at the burning in her eyes. She would not cry. Her father shook his head lightly, dropping his sword on the ground. It reverted back to his wand. He came to her and wrapped his arms around her, resting his cheek against her sodden hair.
"Is that what you think? You think you're less deserving of love, or affection, because of what happened?" She nodded against him, and then dropped her own sword; her wand hit the grass. She encircled her arms around her father.
"Helen," he implored, softly, "you can't do that to yourself. You're a wonderful person, and just because someone took advantage of you doesn't make you any less desirable in the eyes of other people."
"But—"
"No buts," he cut her off. "There was nothing you could have done to prevent what happened. It wasn't your fault. No one will think any less of you because of it."
She took a shaky breath. Her father always made things better. "A-alright…I'm sorry that I attacked you like that," she said, but he just laughed.
"I guess I deserved it," he said, and leaned back to look in her eyes. "About Hermione and I…is it really that difficult for you to accept that there could be something between us?"
Helen gave her father a rueful smile. "As long as this," she emphasized, indicating their hug with a nod of head, "never changes…no, I guess not."
His face broke into a wide smile, and she couldn't help but join in as he leaned forward to embrace her tightly once again. "That's my girl," he intoned, and patted her on the back. He stepped back and bent to pick up his wand; she retrieved hers from the ground as well.
"You should really talk to her sometime, though, about…everything," he said.
"I know," she replied, "and I-I w-will," she chattered. Now that she wasn't moving anymore, she was rather cold and wet. Harry gave her a look, and then rubbed his forearms.
"It is quite chilly…I think we could both use a hot shower right about now." Helen nodded, and they began to walk through the mud and rain back to the castle. Just inside the doors, Harry stopped and turned to her.
"So are we alright?"
She nodded and gave him a smile. They were definitely all right. Her father never failed to make her feel better, even if sometimes she got incredibly annoyed with him, because it never lasted.
"Yeah, we are," she replied. He nodded once, squeezed her hand, and then Disapparated. It was with some ironic self-deprecation that she realized she could do that as well, and that she should more often—they could have done it directly from outside. She Disapparated from the Entrance Hall, leaving it empty, save for the puddle that had accumulated beneath both their feet.
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The next two weeks were, without fail, some of the busiest that Harry, Hermione, and Helen had ever seen. Staff trickled back in during that time, and they all had to get ready for the upcoming school year. Helen and Hermione both had more on their plates than Harry did, so they all temporarily suspended whatever maladjustments they still had with each other and set to work.
Helen and Hermione had to set up their classrooms, as well as reviewing the existing curriculums in Potions and Transfiguration to make sure they were current on everything being taught. They had to review the textbooks and create lesson plans for the first term, because Dumbledore was adamant that his Professors had at least some idea of the direction they would go in.
Harry, on the other hand, already had his classroom set and his textbooks memorized, but he had to go over further changes in his curriculum. Since he had become the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, he had catalyzed many changes in the way the class was taught—not just at Hogwarts, but also all over the magical world. The changes, in the end, came back to him as official revisions to the curriculum and what was expected of each year of students, and he had to make sure that he was up to date on them. It was ironic to him that things he had first started doing eventually were things he had to make sure he was still doing.
So it was with little ceremony that the morning of September 1st, 2009 rolled around, and it wouldn't have been unusual, except for one thing: the weather had not changed. It hadn't rained constantly, but the constant pall the low hanging clouds cast never ceased. It was also still unseasonably cold, which caused those that had been in Sicily to feel the loss of the sun even more keenly. There was not much anyone could do however, because ultimately, magic couldn't control the climate.
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Hermione leaned over her desk, concentrating on some last second revisions to her lessons plans for the next few weeks. Her first class was due in about ten minutes, and she had to make sure that she was ready for them. She knew all of the material, but she was the type of person that had to have everything planned out precisely.
Planned out precisely…she supposed that's why what she was so confused about what she had with Harry. It wasn't following any set pattern, or any preconceptions that she'd had about relationships. Some days, he was approachable and affectionate and other days he was reticent and distant. The off and on warm and cold feelings she was getting hurt her, because in some respects she thought it was because of her. She knew that he had to come to terms with Ginny, but it didn't feel nice when she tried so hard to show him how much she cared, and he ignored it.
She heard voices outside her classroom, which broke off her train off thought, and looked back down at the plan she had been concluding. There was still some left to do, but she supposed that she could take care of it later. She stood to greet her new students, and the door swung open; the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw first years trickled shyly into the classroom.
She remembered with some clarity what it was like going to her first class, and she couldn't blame these eleven year olds for the slightly terrified looks they had on their faces. She hoped, at least, that she didn't look quite as stern as Minerva did when Hermione had first seen her.
"Find a seat, please, everyone find a seat. There's plenty of room for everyone—no, fill in the front rows first, please. After you've found one, take out your textbook and your wands please."
She gave them all enough time to get appropriately settled, and the moved around from behind her desk. She slowly paced the space between the front row and her desk, with her arms crossed.
"I trust you all found it easy to get acclimated last night?" she asked the class. Various nods met her question, "And was the feast everything I'm sure you've heard it would be?" This time more nods, and even some smiles, answered her. "That's good," she said with a smile.
"My name is Hermione Granger," she motioned to herself. "You can call me either Professor Granger or Miss Hermione, whichever you prefer. This is First Year Transfiguration, and it's the start of your seven years in this class.
"Some of you—those who score well on their OWLs at the end of your fifth years—will go on to my NEWT Transfiguration class during your sixth and seventh years, and the rest of you will continue with the core curriculum.
"I know that this might seem a little early for this speech, but I know from personal experience how important this class is for success after Hogwarts. I urge all of you to take your studies seriously, while having some fun, of course, because employers like to see that NEWT Transfiguration is on your resumes."
Hermione had to smile to herself. Many of the kids looked fairly bewildered, as if they hadn't been expecting such a…direct…speech on their first day, but it would serve its purpose. Her voice had been warm and inviting, letting them know that she was approachable as their professor, but the words had set into their minds that Transfiguration wasn't a class they could fool around in.
"Are there any questions?" No one moved or said anything for a few seconds; then, a boy of dark complexion slowly raised his hand.
"Yes…?" she cocked her head at him.
"Timmy, Timmy James," he said. "You went to Hogwarts, too?"
Hermione nodded. "Yes, I did. I graduated in 1998."
The boy acquired a thoughtful look for a moment. "Wasn't that the year Harry Potter graduated?"
Hermione smiled at him. "Yes, it was."
A small girl in the front looked like she was about to burst, and sure enough, she spoke next: "What's he like?" There was a breathless quality to her voice.
Hermione raised her eyebrows. "You have class with him, don't you?" she asked. The little girl nodded. "What's your name?"
"Beth," she said.
"Well, Beth, I think you'll see what he's like when you sit for Defense for the first time," Hermione said, and watched as the little girl's cheeks went slightly pink. Hermione shook her head minutely; Harry didn't realize it, or didn't care, but he had the new students wrapped around his finger—it was a wonder that they became so easy with him by the time they graduated. It was a testament to his teaching, and his personality, though, that he could forge normal relationships with those whom had idolized him for so long.
Timmy spoke again. "Miss Hermione…weren't you one of his closest friends? I recognize your name."
Hermione nodded again. "Yes…yes I was, but why don't we get back to the topic of Transfiguration? We can talk about Professor Potter another time. In fact," she said, knitting her eyebrows, "we could have a joint Transfiguration-Defense class at some point. How does that sound to all of you?"
This time the nods and smiles were very enthusiastic. It was amazing what the name 'Harry Potter' did to enliven the spirits of youngsters.
"Alright…who can tell me what Transfiguration is?"
She pointed to a girl who raised her hand, raising her eyebrows. "It's Anna…and Transfiguration is the study of the magical art of changing an object into something else."
Hermione inclined her head. "That is a good start, but it is a little more than just that. With Transfiguration, you can do more than just change things. You can animate them, shrink or enlarge them, or even hide them.
"Take this Snitch, for example," she said, picking up the small golden ball off her desk. Its wings lay folded and dormant against its lustrous sides. "I presume that you all know what Quidditch is." They affirmed that they did.
"As you can see, it is not moving, unlike how they usually are. Snitch's have complicated animation spells on them, to prevent tampering, which are built from the simplest of them." Hermione raised her wand to the gold ball.
"Vola!" she commanded, and the wings fluttered slightly; the ball raised itself about an inch off her palm. There were some noises of awe and satisfaction from the class.
"You will be able to do this by the end of this year." Her look turned crafty. "It might just be on your final exam." The noises quickly died away. "But, it's not too bad. It's not a very hard spell, and once you master it, you can't forget how to do it."
She let the class watch the hovering ball for another minute, and then said, "Finite." It dropped back into her palm, and set it carefully back onto her desk. She turned back around.
"Now…take this paper clip here," she intoned as she held up the small metal object. "It's useful as it is, but this one is very small. Suppose you need to clip a large stack of papers, but this kind was the only one you had. What could you do?"
"You could make it bigger," a boy said.
"What's your name?"
"Ian."
"Alright, Ian, that's very good. I could enlarge it, rather than having to find or buy bigger ones." She pointed her wand at the paper clip. "Engorgio," she said, lightly, and let her magical power trickle into the spell. The paper clip increased in size about twofold.
"Now, as you can see, it didn't get much bigger, which is what I wanted. If I had put a lot of power into the spell, it would have become too large, and its purpose would have been defeated.
"That's another thing you will eventually learn, and master, as time progresses: how to regulate and vary the power with which you cast."
"Miss Hermione," a girl asked, raising her hand. Hermione arched an eyebrow toward her. "My name is Delia Cooper…are we going to study Animagi in this class?"
Hermione was wondering when that question would come up, and it had taken a little longer than she'd expected. She knew she was going to disappoint her pupils with what she was going to say, but better to let them know now than later.
"Up until about eight years ago, we would have studied it in your seventh year NEWT class. However, the Ministry of Magic felt that it was unnecessary and took time away from important studies, such as live Transfigurations. So, I'm sorry to say, you will not be studying Animagi at Hogwarts."
Many faces in the class fell. "But…but does that mean we never will be able to?" Delia asked.
"After you graduate, I'm sure you can find private tutors if you really want to try your hand at the art."
"What do you transform into, Miss Hermione?" the same girl asked.
Hermione shook head. "I'm not gifted in that particular field of study," she said. "I am not an Animagus." She supposed there might have been some sorrow in her face, but she had moved past that particular disappointment, years before. She had actually discovered that she was unable to transform soon after she'd left Britain.
"Oh," Delia said, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be, Delia; you have nothing to be sorry for." Hermione looked around the class. "Any more questions?"
A boy raised his hand—he looked very sheepish. When Hermione indicated that he could go on, he said, "I'm Travis Parker…I was just wondering how old Professor Dumbledore is?" He then looked as if he couldn't believe he asked that, because he dipped his head and blushed. There were some chuckles from the class, and Hermione couldn't hold her own back. It was a perfectly innocent question, and they might all be surprised by the answer. She didn't care that it had nothing to do with Transfiguration; let them get their general questions out of the way first—the more focused study could come on the second day of class.
"Well…he was born in 1846, which makes him one hundred and sixty three at the moment." She watched as eyes went wide throughout the class.
"So he's…wow, how is that even possible?" Travis asked. She assumed that he was raised as a Muggle, because they lived shorter lives than wizards. It was uncommon to see one over a hundred years of age, whereas with magical people, old age didn't become uncommon until about one hundred and forty.
"His age is unusual, but not as much as you might think. Witches and wizards live much longer than Muggles, due to how their magic affects their bodies. He is very powerful, and that explains how he has lived so long."
"How powerful is he?" someone asked, and she didn't catch whom.
"The second most powerful wizard in the world," she responded.
"Really? Whose the first?"
"I think you all can guess that," she said, and waited for them to make the connection. She was actually very surprised that they didn't know.
"Is it Harry Potter?"
She nodded. "And you're all lucky enough to have him as a Professor…which reminds me, don't let him hear you call him Harry, unless he says it's ok."
"Do you think he'll show us some of what he can do?"
She smiled at the wide-eyed inexperience they were all exuding; it was very cute. "I'm sure he will someday," she said, and she realized that she had never even seen the full extent of his magical powers. She would have to coax him to show her sometime.
The signal for the end of class rang out. She raised her hands to address them one more time. "For next class, I'd like you to look over the first chapter of your textbook. Just have a basic idea of what we're going to be talking about." They filed out of the classroom, and Hermione returned to her desk after the last had left.
Her first class had been a success, even though they had all seemed to want to talk more about Harry than Transfiguration, but she was sure that would pass with time; once they came to know their Defense teacher, they wouldn't be so hung up on the image they'd created of him.
Hermione had her own image of him…and at the moment it wasn't very flattering. He was seemingly unwilling to commit totally to her. She would visit him later that night and try to work things out once and for all.
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"I think I can skip the usual preamble this year, right?" Harry asked, addressing his class of sixth year Slytherins and Gryffindors. They had just come in, and this was his first class of the new year. He recognized all of the faces, and was glad that most of the previous fifth years had scored high enough on their OWLs to be in this NEWT Defense class. The Slytherin stereotype had faded over the years, and they were no longer distinguished as the 'bad' or 'dark' house. They were simply the ones with most ambition.
"Sure thing, Professor," one of the boys said.
"Please take out your wands then. Today will be a practical lesson; we'll get to the theory next time." There was some shuffling as books and bags were put away, and once it ceased, the only thing they all were holding was their wands.
"What's the most common magical defense?" he asked. Every hand in the class shot up. "My sixth and seventh year NEWT classes are very informal—there's no need for hands. We're all equal here, so just shout out the answer."
"Protego," a few of them said.
"And what can Protego stop?"
"Anything," a girl said, "if you can apply the requisite amount of magical power."
"Very good; I'm glad you remembered that little tidbit."
"Wait…even Avada Kedavra?" it was asked.
"Well, now," Harry started, "you bring up an interesting point." He leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms across his chest. "Ten years ago, it was commonly thought that the Killing Curse was unblockable. However, in recent studies conducted by the Ministry of Magic, and by myself here at Hogwarts, we have come to the conclusion that one can in fact block it."
There were many surprised looks throughout the class. "How is that possible?"
"Do any of you know what an Avada Kedavra actually does?"
"It severs the connection between the soul and the body, Professor."
Harry nodded. "Can you actually explain that, though?" At their confused looks, he clarified. "Can you really say what a soul is, or how it's actually tied to the body? What's the process the Killing Curse goes through to complete its task?"
A few people shook their heads, and there were many blank stares. "No one even wants to guess?"
"Um…" a boy started, "does it overload the person's magical core?"
Harry smiled ruefully. "A good guess, but that would only make them combust in their own energies. Anyone else?"
"Does it have anything to do with the caster's soul?" a girl asked, and she was instantly rewarded by a bright smile from her Professor.
"Very good," Harry said. "That's exactly right. Avada Kedavra forms an instantaneous connection between the souls, and the spell serves to overpower that link in their victim. It's all part of the process of the spell.
"Literally translated," Harry continued, "the incantation means 'it shall be destroyed'. And that is precisely what it does—it destroys life."
"You said there was a way to block it?"
"Yes, and it's simply a variation of the Protego. It requires great concentration, though, because it is not based on your magical power. It's based on your will, and the more indomitable that is, the easier it is to cast."
Harry stood up from where he was leaning on his desk. "I'd like you all to stand up," he said, and they quickly did so. With a wave of his hand, he banished all of the desks and chairs to the back of the room. The students were used to his wandless magic, and did not question it.
"First things first; everyone cast a simple Protego," he said. He watched as they all did so, noting the various colors of their shields. Gold was the most powerful, followed by platinum, silver, bronze, light blue, and then a yellowish color. Most had either light blue or yellow, but there were a few with bronze ones. Harry cast his own, and a sleek, gold magical barrier slid into place around him.
"This spell, as you all know, is dependent on the strength you cast it with; everyone cast it again, and this time force as much of your power into it as you can." They all did so, and this time, they all had either light blue or bronze ones. Harry did likewise, to the limits his non-ascended magic could take him, and a much brighter version of the same gold shield came up around him.
"You should all be able to feel your magic literally pulsing to sustain this level of usage," he said, and saw that many of them were in fact straining to keep them up. "You can let them down…I don't want to strain you all too much in our first class of the year," he said with a smile. There were audible sighs as the shields around the room blinked out of existence.
"Now…we're going to try the specialized Protego," Harry instructed.
"Who discovered this spell?" one of the students queried.
"Well…no one 'discovered' it, exactly. It was more of a…manipulation of preexisting magical parameters."
"Then who did that?"
Harry smiled benignly. "It's not important, but if you must know, I was the principle researcher." Harry saw that none of his class was surprised; he was glad for it. He hated having to explain his 'talents' to people.
"So what's the incantation?"
"Animis Protega," Harry said. "Simply, it literally means 'protection of souls'. However, the magical feeling it requires is much more complicated. You have to plainly want to protect yourself, and you have to sustain that want."
Harry grew very somber. "I really hope that none of you will ever be put into a situation where you would actually have to use this spell, but I can tell you that if the Killing Curse has been cast against you, in a real situation, that want will be born of desperation and it will stay."
No one moved or said anything. He knew they were all aware of just how much firsthand experience he had, and no one questioned what he said.
"As I said before, this spell has nothing to do with magical power. Even the weakest of witches or wizards can cast it—I presume that squibs could, as well—as long as they have the will to live and protect themselves."
"Professor?" someone asked. Harry looked at the young lady.
"Yes, Samantha?"
"Why do you think it's so important that we learn this?" It was a simple question, but Harry knew that the implied one was whether or not he expected them to have to use it.
Harry sighed. "It may not seem like it to all of you, but the world is an imperfect place. Not all people are as benevolent as we'd like to believe, and there are many out there with little regard for life.
"My job, as your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, is to teach you the skills necessary to protect yourselves against the Dark Arts; more than that, however, I want to teach you how to preserve your life, your sanity, and your physical and magical health.
"I sincerely hope there never is a case for any of you to use this spell outside of this classroom, but if that time comes, when you have to protect yourselves, I'll be glad that I could have provided you with at least some of the knowledge required. So, in answer to your question, it's important to me that you learn this, and it should be important to all of you, as well."
There was another silence when he stopped speaking, and Harry gave them a few seconds to absorb all that he'd said. He believed every word of it, because he'd seen so much death and pain during his life; none of them needed to experience that, and if he could educate them with ways to prevent it, he would try his damnedest. Harry closed his eyes briefly, realizing that he had his own pain still to deal with. He was so gung-ho about preventing others', that he sometimes let his own fester. The hypocrisy had finally presented itself, through his own words, and he saw no reason for it to continue; it was about time he started preventing his own pain. Maybe he would see Hermione later on and let her know…
"Professor?"
Harry shook his head. "Sorry about that…anyways, I'd like you all to try the spell once, and then we can be done for the day."
There were faint flickers as they cast the new spell, but no one even came close to producing the desired effect. Harry knew were two things wrong: it was the first time they'd tried, and they didn't have the proper stimulus to give them the extra push. It was not like he could give them that, though, because he wasn't about to cast Killing Curses around the room. He saw many disappointed looks.
"Don't be discouraged," he told them. "It's very hard to master."
"Let's see it," a girl said, and he raised his hand. He concentrated for a moment, and then spoke the incantation. A pure white essence faded into view. It quavered slightly. Harry held it for a few moments, and then let it fade away.
"All of yours will look like that, when you are able to cast it," he said, and then dismissed them. He unbanished the chairs and desks from the rear of the room, and then sat down at his desk. He would definitely be seeing Hermione later.
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Helen set out the last of the ingredients across the worktable at the front of the room, and turned to make sure the cauldrons were all in order. She wiped her hands across the front of her work robes, partly because they were slightly dirty and also because they were sweaty. She was somewhat nervous, as this was her first class as a Professor at Hogwarts, but she had confidence in herself. She watched as the door opened and the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor 2nd years strolled in, quickly finding seats. They looked expectantly to her.
"Hello…I'm Professor Potter, and this is 2nd year Potions. So, how is it to be back at Hogwarts again?" she asked them.
There was a smattering of 'goods' and 'greats'; a boy raised his hand. She pointed to him.
"Professor Potter, weren't you the Head Girl last year?" he asked.
Helen nodded. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I was." She continued with a small smile: "I had the power to discipline you then, and I still do now." She winked at them. That seemed to break whatever ice there had been, and the atmosphere in the room visibly relaxed.
"What's it like to be a Professor?" someone asked.
"Well…you are my first class; I guess I'll find out, right?" she responded. Some of them laughed.
"Well, I think you'll be a lot nicer than Professor Snape," someone else said.
"Oh, come now, Professor Snape wasn't all that bad," she said, eyeing the boy who had declared that. He shrunk in his seat slightly. "He is a little…callous…but he's brilliant when it comes to Potions."
"So are you, though," the boy said, straightening up a little.
"Oh? And how do you know that?" she asked, amused.
"You got O+'s on all of your NEWTS!" he declared.
Helen was a little surprised that he knew that. She wasn't aware that people's scores were public knowledge.
"If you don't mind me asking…?" she cocked her eyebrow at him.
"Michael," he said.
She nodded. "Michael, if you don't mind me asking, how did you know that?"
He gave her a funny look. "There was a huge article in the Daily Prophet about it."
"Really…huh." Helen shrugged. "In any case, I'm glad that you seem to have faith in me," she said. "Now, how about we get started for the day?" Several students took out their books and rearranged some supplies on their desks.
"Today we will be working on a salve that alleviates the pain from stinging hexes. It's a rather simple Potion, but one of the ingredients is volatile, so we must all observe the proper precautions. There are sets of dragon hide gloves in the back of the room, and you all should wear them for the duration of this class." There was the scraping of many chairs, and the second years filed toward the back to pick up the gloves. Once they had all returned to their seats, she started to go over the ingredients.
"First, you need to heat about ¼ of a cauldron of water to boiling, and then you should put about five ounces of powdered root of asphodel in there. That must sit for about 10 minutes before you can proceed, so you can set to work on the next few ingredients while you wait.
"Ten grams of sunflower seeds and eight grams of diced euphrasia should be added after those 10 minutes, and then you should stir it counter-clockwise for another 10 minutes. The next ingredient—the nectar from a Venus flytrap, is corrosive and is what you need your gloves for.
"As soon as you're done stirring, transfer fifteen milliliters from the main source, up here on my desk, into your cauldrons. Let it sit for another five minutes, stir clockwise twice, and you should be finished. It should be a dark purple color at that point."
Most had taken notes as she was talking, and they all confidently set out to do their business. She watched as they poured the water into their cauldrons and set the flame beneath it; they then had to wait for it to boil. She slowly walked up and down the rows, making sure they were all behaving appropriately. The students then moved on to carefully measuring the asphodel, and poured it in. There was a slight hissing as the substance met the boiling water.
It appeared that Snape had trained these students well the previous year, because so far as she could see, they were taking it very seriously. She had always enjoyed the moody Professor, because she knew that he was brilliant and that he used his snarkiness as a way to distance himself from the students. He wasn't mean—he just wasn't overly fond of young people.
She remembered how her and Paul had constantly annoyed the man, mostly because they had never, in their entire seven years at Hogwarts, made a potion incorrectly. By the time they were both seventh years, he was giving the two of them much harder assignments than the rest of the class, but they still got them right.
Thinking of Paul so suddenly like that sent pangs through her heart—she hadn't seen him in the past week or so. Perhaps she would let him know that he could come to Hogwarts later in the day, and they could finally enjoy some quality time alone together.
A sliding noise broke her from her thoughts, and her eyes went to the room before her. She noticed students scrambling out of the way, and someone screamed. She identified the problem immediately; a cauldron full of boiling water and ingredients was somehow tipping over. If it did so, it would most likely burn several of her students.
Without thinking, she Apparated across the room, ascended, and reached out with her magic just as the cauldron tipped. The hot mixture stopped about halfway to the stone floor, suspended in the air by her magic. She reversed its progress, and the cauldron was soon back into its normal position. She descended and turned to the offending students. They had wide-eyed amazement in her eyes; in fact, as she noticed, most of them did.
"What happened?"
"Uh…" one of them stammered out, "I'm not sure. It just started sliding." Helen furrowed her brows, and then turned to the small pedestal the cauldron was on. She inspected it closely for a moment, and then realized that it was slightly slanted. The weight of the water must have finally overcome the friction of the stone on the cauldron, and over it went. She concentrated for a moment, and then ascended once again. A bright green aura flashed out from her body.
The students stepped back, watching their Professor do something like nothing they'd ever seen before. Helen kneeled before the pedestal, and slowly green tendrils reached out and surrounded the stone. It flashed brightly for a moment, and then she stood. There was no longer a tilt—she had permanently transfigured the stone to better accommodate the cauldron.
"That should be all set," she said, and smirked as she turned back toward her desk. Her students were in awe of her, which wasn't altogether a bad thing, but it would have to be quelled eventually. "Please get back to work, everyone."
She continued to monitor their progress throughout the rest of the class, especially when they came to using the nectar of the Venus flytrap—she didn't want any serious accidents on her first day. One had already been avoided, but that was close enough. Finally, as the class drew to a close, the students took samples of their salves from their cauldrons, stoppered the flasks, and set them on her desk. She was satisfied to see that most of them were exactly the right shade of purple they should be.
"Alright, I'm very happy with you all. Good job everyone—for next time, please review chapter one of your textbook. We will be working on several of those potions in the coming classes."
The students cleaned the workstations and left the room. She surveyed it once, making sure that everything was in order, and then left to go to lunch. She was having a good day so far, and she hoped that she could make it better by seeing Paul later on.
Maybe she would actually tell him what had happened to her…he probably had a right to know. And if what her father had told her was true, then it shouldn't affect how he saw or treated her. She really hoped that her father had been right, because she didn't know if she could deal with that kind of rejection. But…that conversation would come later. For now, she would eat her lunch and continue to enjoy her first day as a Professor at Hogwarts. Maybe she would even ask Hermione how her first class had gone. Helen smiled to herself. Perhaps things weren't so bad after all.
