17 September 2001 - 29 September 2001
Considering the fact that he hadn't spoken to her at all, and avoided looking at her as much as he could, Harry had learned a lot of things about Ginny.
Harry knew that she had a pygmy puff that was pretty much attached to her wherever she went. His name was Arnold, and he was the only living thing she willingly touched. He noticed that while she had friends, she mostly ate alone; he saw her usually at breakfast. Her hair was always wind-tossed as though she spent a great deal of time outside, and while she smiled once in a while, it never really made it to her eyes. And he hadn't yet heard her laugh, though she might when he wasn't around.
Something told him that she didn't.
She didn't often show up for dinner; Harry knew this because he arrived early and loitered long after he was full. He never made it to lunch (he always seemed to be scrambling to figure out just what he was going to do with his classes), so he didn't know if she chose to make that her main meal of the day.
It surprised him that he noticed all of this despite the fact that he tried not to look at her. Her voice echoed from the past: don't look at me... Harry wasn't certain, but he thought she might still want him to look away.
Almost three weeks into classes, Harry spoke to her for the first time.
Rain battered the windows, and he'd actually had to perform a Heating Charm on the classroom. He was reminded of the year the dementors had been breeding out of control and the whole of Britain had lay under an unnatural mist. The winter had seemed to come on early then, too. The seventh year students were just warming up and taking off their cloaks when Ginny walked in. Harry watched out of the corner of his eye as she took her seat and threw her cloak and scarf over her chair. She looked quite grumpy.
For some perverse reason, this made him want to smile.
It was another practical lesson, and Ginny, Demelza Robins, and Emma Dobbs were together again. Harry felt a bit guilty that he'd avoided them as though they had dragon pox, and forced himself to watch as Dobbs attempted to hit Robins with a Jelly-Legs Jinx. Robins, who was not very good with offensive spells (Harry had never seen her actually hit anyone with anything, though he was the first to admit that he'd been less than attentive to the three girls), was decent at throwing up Shield Charms. Ginny had her arms crossed over her chest.
"You're doing very well," he said. "All three of you," he forced himself to add. He saw Ginny give him a fleeting look before he retreated to the safer side of the classroom.
It didn't help his nerves that he kept expecting Ron and Hermione to burst through the doors (whether to the Great Hall, his classroom, or his private living quarters) at any moment. He developed rather elaborate fantasies in which Ron battered him for letting his little sister be brutalized and then again for leaving and not coming back. And he could see the angry disappointment on Hermione's face. But as the days passed and a horde of furious Weasleys did not descend on Hogwarts, Harry came to the conclusion that Ginny had not told her parents that he was her professor.
She was the only person in the castle who could; the rest had had a compulsion laid upon them that first night. Nothing dangerous, but whenever they tried to talk or write about him to someone outside the castle, they would find themselves babbling nonsense instead.
Harry had been quite proud of that little plan, though it was pretty much all for nothing. That applies to the rest of your life as well, Harry, unless you grow a pair, said a voice inside his head that sounded like a mixture of Sirius and Remus. He ignored it.
Two classes later, and Harry surprised himself by not only speaking directly to Ginny, but making eye contact with her as well.
After almost two weeks of strictly practical lessons, Harry had realized that he actually had to teach and not just adjust grips and pronunciation. So he set aside two days a week with the seventh years to actually teach them advanced spells and delve into the theory. He hated these occasions, and spent the two days before them alternating between dreading it and setting himself tasks that allowed him to procrastinate without feeling too guilty.
He sat cross-legged on his table and faced the room. He planned on talking about intent, and how it was important for spells, especially defensive spells. How many times had he talked to Dumbledore about this same topic? But in this moment, the only thing he could remember about it was completely inappropriate. "It's like wanking," Ron had said with a straight face. "You've got to really mean it and really work at it, otherwise nothing will come out of it."
"Now - does anyone want to explain why you've got to really mean the magic?" Harry asked, after clearing his throat. His face burned, and he devoutly prayed that none of the students knew Legilimency.
No one said anything. Harry surreptitiously wiped his hand on his robes and wished he could think of an explanation that didn't involve opening up the subject of wanking. Rescue came from an unexpected quarter.
"The wand isn't disconnected from the brain or the heart," said Ginny. Harry turned his head toward her so fast that he gave himself whiplash; she was staring down at her desk, and her face was crimson, but Harry had the feeling that she'd just been looking at him. She stroked Arnold. "In many ways, magic goes where it's wanted most."
"Excellent, Ginny," he said. And suddenly he was able to push Ron's words out of his head and he leapt up from the desk. "Take this, for example." He pointed his wand at Euan Abercrombie. "Watch," he said. And a jet of blue light arced out and hit the dark-haired boy's head, turning it a mottled, pale blue. "Now, that was a bit half-hearted," he said. "But now... I'm standing here trying to prove a point, and if there isn't some sort of change, I'll be pretty humiliated. So I really, really want the spell to work."
He sent it again, and this time Abercrombie's head turned a deep, royal blue. Harry was relieved.
The rest of the class went rather well. Certainly better than his first and second year classes. After his disastrous first attempt at teaching young people, most of the students under the age of thirteen either believed he was possessed by Voldemort or a complete moron. He wasn't sure which rankled more.
I'm either Quirrell or Lockhart, he thought darkly two days later, as he led Benjamin Corner, the overly enthusiastic Ravenclaw boy who didn't think disarming was important, to the hospital wing. He remembered Ben's older brother, Michael, as being a member of the Defense Association, and cursed him for teaching his little brother hexes. The older Corner hadn't even had the decency to teach his brother not to hex himself.
Harry had been forced to allow the first years to leave class ten minutes early.
"You're not to hex yourself anymore," Harry said sternly.
"Am I meant to disarm myself, then?" Ben said through rapidly growing teeth. Harry was grudgingly impressed with the boy's ability to harm himself. He was only eleven, after all.
"You're lucky I can pretend I didn't understand you," Harry warned. The boy regarded him with a mixture of hero worship and confusion added to a healthy dose of disillusionment. Harry knew that he was battering down the boy's adoration, and it pleased him. Ben Corner had no idea that the simple disarming spell that he held in such contempt had been the ultimate downfall of Voldemort. Harry sometimes felt like telling him this, just to strip the rest of those illusions away, but stopped himself.
He pushed open the doors to the hospital wing.
"Back again, Professor Potter?" Madam Pomfrey said wearily. She was tending to someone, though her body hid the person from view. "I used to have a bed designated for your use. Now it's for your students, is it?"
Harry rubbed his neck sheepishly. "I told him not to do it," he said finally.
"I'll be right with you, Mr. Corner," she said bracingly. And she moved to reveal the patient: Ginny Weasley. Of course.
She held her hand close to her body; it was swollen to twice its normal size. Harry's brows slammed together. "What the hell happened to you?" he said loudly. A rage built up inside him that was so intense that he felt almost dizzy from it. He'd noticed that she hadn't been in class, but hadn't thought too much of it. If someone had hurt her...
"Professor Potter!" Madam Pomfrey's hands flew to her hips. "There is no need to shout in my hospital wing!"
Harry was too angry to point out the fact that she'd been far louder than he. He stared at Ginny, not caring that Ben stared between them avidly. Something in her eyes steadied him; she didn't have the broken, hurting look in them. She was poised, and though she gingerly held her arm to her side, he knew it was just a small injury. He'd already seen her in as much pain as someone could be in, and this wasn't it.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly to Madam Pomfrey. She made a huffing noise, but didn't press the issue.
"I fell off my broom," said Ginny.
Harry turned away, nodding. Embarrassment at his overreaction settled in his gut. He took a deep breath. "Tell me, Madam Pomfrey," he attempted a light, casual tone. "Can you fix his face? Or is he going to look like this for the rest of his life?"
Harry left as soon as he could.
After he'd humiliated himself in the hospital wing, his contact with her was negligible. He saw her during class, but not outside of it, unless he counted a very brief glimpse of her bright hair turning a corner or following behind a crowd at meal times.
Ginny was late to class on the last Friday of September. She was pale and shaking; whether this was due to fright or anger, Harry had no idea. He watched her carefully out the corner of his eye. She didn't appear to be listening to him; Arnold was in her hand. I'll save the practical quiz for Monday, he decided.
"All right," he said. "We're going to review. On your feet, wands out," he added.
Ginny knocked over her chair and sent the contents of her book bag flying. Arnold squeaked (Harry thought he might have been more excited than frightened). He was on the other side of the classroom, but was making his way over to help her when-
"Let me hold Arnold for you, Ginny," said the boy sitting nearest her. He held out his hand.
Ginny recoiled. "No!" she said sharply. She brought Arnold close to her chest. "No," she said in a softer voice. "Thank you for asking, but he doesn't like strangers." She tucked him in her collar where he immediately began to try to escape. Harry drew near enough that, when she bent over, he heard her mutter, "Fucking bag. Fucking chair."
And she sounded so irritable and so like how she used to sound when she'd first woken up at the Burrow during the summers he'd spent there that he forgot. "Has Ron finally rubbed off on you, Gin? I don't remember you having such a foul mouth," he teased.
Her head snapped up and she gaped at him. Something told Harry that she was about to respond in kind. For a fleeting moment, she had the same look on her face she used to get when she was about to tease Ron mercilessly: the grin blooming was a mixture of sly and honest enjoyment. But she closed down quickly.
Harry backed off, swishing his wand at the same moment, and setting her things right. He hopped over a desk and invented some excuse to correct one of his students, and he stayed away from her for the rest of the class.
Right after the class, during his free period, he was five steps behind her. And then he wasn't sure if she slowed down or he sped up, but they were suddenly walking side by side. He was a little surprised that she wasn't running away. He was even more surprised that he wasn't. He couldn't read her expression when he peeked; she barely came up to his shoulder. All he could see of her was her red hair and the tip of her nose.
He didn't say anything and neither did she. The silence stretched on uncomfortably, while Harry tried to force himself to say something, but nothing came. And then, inexplicably, the need to say anything died, and the tension broke and faded. His steps matched hers and led to the Great Hall.
"Thank you," she said.
"Anytime," he said.
HPHPHPHPHPHP
20 September 2001 - 30 September 2001
Three years, four months, and eight days after Malfoy Manor two things happened: Harry acknowledged Ginny for the first time (other than lumping her in with Demelza and Emma), and Ginny's ever-present desire to run out of his class vanished.
He'd just looked so helpless. It was obvious that he was completely unprepared to be a professor (when it came to talking, at least; he was the best at giving practical demonstrations), and he often had this mostly blank, slightly panicked expression on his face. He reminded Ginny so much of Arnold (for reasons that remained unknown) at those times, that it helped sooth her jangling nerves, and the voice chanting in her head that he'd seen her at her worst faded away into the background. It was still there, but it didn't blare in her ears anymore.
Three years, four months, and eleven days after Malfoy Manor, Ginny realized that if anyone wanted to talk less about what had happened at Malfoy Manor than her, it was Harry. It was a strange, new experience to encounter someone who had no desire to get her to talk about it.
She'd fallen off of her broom after miscalculating how much space she had to turn away from a tree; Madam Pomfrey had just finished patching her up when Harry had come in leading a first year. She'd had just enough time to remember - with a mixture of guilt and amusement - how it made her smile to think that Harry had terrorized his first years by giving them small details about his own time at Hogwarts. She shouldn't find it funny. She should find the idea of a crowd of first years debating in whispers whether or not Harry had Voldemort sticking out of the back of his head abhorrent.
But it had made her smile.
Harry noticed her behind Madam Pomfrey and had immediately wanted to attack something. She'd seen it in his eyes; his voice had cracked when he'd shouted at her. For one horrible moment, the past rose up inside her and she was once more in the dimly lit kitchen. She was shackled to the table, and when Harry said something she'd never heard anyone so angry.
If her parents or brothers had reacted the same way, she would have been furious and wouldn't have been able to speak to them for days. But he'd retreated from the moment so quickly, that she was once again forcibly reminded of Arnold, and how his entire body would flinch away from something that hurt.
He avoided her for an entire week. Not that he'd ever approached her for an actual conversation (for which she was fervently grateful, though that hurt too), but he stayed on the opposite side of the room from her and didn't look her way at all.
Letters from home and from her brothers arrived in a steady procession; she usually had at least one letter a day. And every time she sat down to tell them that Harry was here with her at Hogwarts, teaching (of all things), something stopped her. She knew all about the charm that stopped everyone from alerting the wider world to his presence. And she also knew that she hadn't been affected by it. Something else was stopping her, though she didn't know exactly what it was.
So she told them about Quidditch practices, how the captain was a slave-driver (which Ginny liked), and little bits of gossip. She didn't tell them about Harry. Not one word.
She also neglected to mention Pollux Sennet.
Three years, four months, and seventeen days after Malfoy Manor, everything changed.
Ginny was late for Defense - again - and was hurrying through the corridors. She wasn't exactly running - she had no desire to be given detention by Mr. Filch - when Mrs. Norris (the demon cat who eyed Arnold with longing) streaked in front of her, sending Ginny spinning into a wall.
"Stupid cat," she said. "What were you thinking?"
Mrs. Norris gave her a disdainful look, and then turned her attention to Arnold, whose head poked out of Ginny's robes. He was obviously wondering what the excitement was.
"She wants your pygmy puff," said Pollux Sennet. He leaned insolently up against the wall.
Ginny turned to him, feeling her stomach plummet. He'd been cropping up everywhere lately, enough so that she knew he was doing it on purpose. "She can't have him," she said, and made to move around him. He pushed himself off the wall and into her path.
"I need to get to class," she said. Leave me alone.
"Would Potter even notice if you were late?" he asked, stepping closer to her.
"Yes," she said fiercely, though she didn't know if this was true or not.
He shrugged, but his smirk told her that he didn't believe her. The look on his face reminded her of the way Mrs. Norris looked at Arnold. Ice flooded her belly.
Then - quick as a flash - he reached out and snatched Arnold. Ginny's eyes widened with horror as he let out a shrill cry. She reached into her robes and drew her wand. Sennet didn't notice.
"Don't you want a real man? I heard you-"
And then he was the one yelping in pain, and Arnold flew through the air, as the Slytherin boy bent over, clenching his rapidly swelling hand. Ginny caught the pygmy puff inches away from the wall. Her hands trembled.
"Bitch," Sennet said viciously. Ginny ignored him.
She was literally shaking with a strange, perfect mixture of fear and fury when she reached the door that led to Defense Against the Dark Arts. It carried her across the threshold, and she found herself praying that Harry had decided (randomly, it always seemed) to have them go at each other in a mock duel. She wouldn't mind pretending that either Demelza or Emma was Pollux Sennet...
How dare that asshole try to hurt Arnold!
As though he had read her mind, he said, "All right, we're going to review. On your feet, wands out."
Ginny knocked her chair over. Her book bag tumbled over along with it. All of her things tumbled out and in the space of what seemed like half a second, she'd made a huge mess. And it just had to happen in front of Harry. Of course. And she couldn't even immediately tidy the area with her wand; that had been lost in the clutter.
Dennis Creevey reached toward her. "Let me hold Arnold for you, Ginny," he said.
Ginny scrambled back. After Pollux Sennet, she didn't want anyone even going near Arnold. He didn't like it when anyone besides her held him or touched him. It wasn't good for him. "No!" she said more sharply than she intended. Creevey looked offended. "No," she said in a quieter voice, though it was his own fault that he'd tried to take Arnold from her. "He doesn't like strangers."
The faintly pitying look on his face was enough to make her cheeks flame, and she bent over and was quite vicious to her things in search of her wand. "Fucking bag," she said under her breath. "Fucking chair."
"Has Ron finally rubbed off on you, Gin? I don't remember you having such a foul mouth."
Harry.
For the most fleeting of moments, she was hurtled once more to the past. And not to Malfoy Manor, but to a time when she'd just been young and in love with her big brother's best mate. And he'd teased her, but in a kind way, and she'd loved the attention. Something bloomed inside of her-
But then reality came crashing back, and she saw the same knowledge in Harry's green eyes. Malfoy Manor cast a long shadow.
I'm tired of that, said a very small voice inside her head. Another thought followed swiftly on the heels of that one: I'm going to give the cloak back. Ginny didn't know when or how she'd finally come to that decision, but she knew that no matter how it made her insides quiver to think of not having the added protection of the Hallow, but she would be required to seek him out.
By the time class ended, she felt stupid and jittery. Arnold was likewise irritable, and kept digging into her skin with his little claws. I should just do it now, she told herself while she loitered outside the classroom. Harry had his free period now, but he always left. He never lingered in the class, though he was always the last to leave.
Just when she was about to give up and leave, the door opened. She took a second to marvel at the fact that even if she hadn't known it was him, she would've known his footsteps. Even after all these years. He didn't shuffle or practically sprint; he didn't amble like Ron, and his strides were shorter than Bill's. He walked lightly.
She slowed down a bit. He hesitated for a brief moment, and then sped up just a tiny bit and matched his steps to hers.
And then she began a conversation with him inside her head. I have your father's cloak. I've been borrowing it since you left. Hermione said it was all right; I hope you don't mind. I don't need it anymore, and I know you don't have very many things of your dad's, and you left most of them behind when-
But even in her head, she shied away from going there with him. If she mentioned it, she'd be absolutely certain he was thinking about it, and she didn't know if she could really bear it.
To her surprise, the longer he was silent, the more comfortable she became until gradually the knot in her belly dissipated. Even Arnold stopped his restless chuntering and curled up near her ear (after using her arm and shoulder as a tree), humming slightly. Then-
"Thank you," said Ginny, once they had reached the doors to the Great Hall. She didn't even know precisely what she was thanking him for, though she told herself it was because he'd walked beside her for ten minutes without once asking her how she was doing.
"Anytime," he said.
There was an awkward moment when they both stood there without knowing quite what to do, but they moved away (Harry to the staff table, and Ginny to her house table) at almost the same moment. She felt a little guilty for not telling him about the cloak, but she'd tell him tomorrow.
Less than twenty four hours later, Ginny paced outside of his office door. She knew he was in there; she'd seen him enter. She suddenly wished that she'd managed to have her morning fly, though she didn't need it. Not really. Quidditch had started up again, and the captain of the team was zealous in his pursuit of the cup. Her bum still ached from the grueling practice the night before-
Stop stalling, she told herself firmly. Arnold squeaked as though he agreed with her. Her slightly damp hands clutched the cloak, and before she could stop herself, she adjusted the fabric over her arm and rapped sharply on the door.
"Come in."
She pushed open the door. Harry sat behind his desk; his feet were up on it. He did not appear to be doing anything with the various stacks of Defense Against the Dark Arts books that cluttered the surface. Ginny spied a folded bit of parchment under his elbow, and suspected he had been making paper airplanes.
His feet banged to the floor and his mouth fell open when he saw that it was her. Ginny's stomach twisted up in a knot. Just do it, just do it, just do it.
"I have your cloak," she said finally, breaking the silence. She hooked her hair behind her ear with one hand and held the shimmering material out with the other. He dropped his wide-eyed gaze from her face to the cloak.
"My cloak?"
"Yes, your cloak," she said, anxiety making her voice sharp. "Your dad's cloak."
He continued to stare at it as though he had never seen it before. A million different emotions flashed across his face. She shuffled her feet, unconsciously poising herself to flee if he brought up why she'd had it in the first place. Or why he'd left it behind after Malfoy Manor.
He cleared his throat and ruffled his hair. "You can - do you want to keep borrowing it for a little while longer?"
Ginny took this to be Harry's way of asking if she still needed it, and it sent a little flash of irritation through her. He wasn't cocky like he used to be. And his mouth had hardened as though he rarely smiled. But the look on Harry's face was so familiar and it was galling to see proof that he still saw her as a little girl. She knew he didn't mean it, but the look on his face was like a challenge.
"No. I haven't used it in ages," she lied. His eyes narrowed on her. He saw her lie. "It's yours."
He took it.
Relieved that her face hadn't gone up in flames, she turned to leave. Then, because she was a bit annoyed with him, she said, "You know, you might want to work on your lessons."
HPHPHPHPHPHPHP
30 September 2001
Harry absently folded another paper airplane. He was supposed to be preparing for his lessons for the day, but couldn't quite manage it. Sometimes he managed to goad himself into it by imagining what Hermione would say upon learning that while he was decent at teaching them to hone their reflexes and attack each other, he was bollocks at anything that involved using words not actions. He liked to think that Ron would be procrastinating and making paper airplanes right along with him.
He massaged the back of his neck, and was just considering having another wank to deal with the unexpected tension and boredom when someone rapped on the door.
Stuffing the latest airplane under his elbow, he said, "Come in."
The door pushed open; Harry fervently hoped it wasn't Minerva. He didn't think she'd like the disarray of his office (or his classes). Or any of his first or second years (he suspected they were plotting to discover if he was a dark wizard). He was just wondering if he had enough time to tidy up before-
There was a flash of bright red out of the corner of his eye. Only one person at Hogwarts had that color of hair. He forgot that he wasn't supposed to look at her and just stared. They'd walked together the day before, but he didn't think she'd ever seek him out. Not in his office. His feet fell to the floor and his mouth hung open in what he was sure was a deeply unattractive manner.
She took a deep breath. "I have your cloak."
The familiar, shimmering fabric was held out to him, and a thousand different memories assaulted him. He'd spent a lot of time sneaking around under that thing with Ron and Hermione. And the last time he'd seen it had been when he'd been putting it away into his rucksack, and Hermione had stuffed everything into her little beaded bag. Hours before Voldemort had been defeated.
"My cloak?"
"Yes, your cloak. Your dad's cloak."
He knew instantly that she'd used it often. She had it with her; Hermione would not have given it to her unless she thought Ginny had needed it. His chest felt tight all of a sudden. And as bittersweet (mostly sweet) it was to see one of the last remaining ties to his father, he didn't want to take away the protection it offered her.
"You can... do you want to keep borrowing it for a while?" he asked nervously. He knew immediately that he'd said the wrong thing; he had forgotten that she was as stubborn and defiant as Ron, if not more so, and there was a spark in her eyes that told him she'd taken his offer as a dare.
"No, I haven't used it in ages," she lied flippantly.
Harry didn't believe her, but he took the cloak anyway. He'd make it a point to teach the seventh years the Disillusionment Charm, if they didn't already know it.
She didn't waste any time, but retreated almost immediately. Then: "You know, you might want to work on your lessons."
The door shut firmly, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.
It wasn't just Ginny that made him uncomfortable. In fact, if he was perfectly honest, being near her was not as wrenching as he might have thought. She was far quieter than she had been. The brutality she'd suffered because of him had left a heavy mark on her. And yet... there were flashes of the girl he used to know, and it made him ache to see Ron and Hermione and all the other Weasleys, but the idea of showing up at the Burrow made him feel sick with dread.
He didn't think he could look her family in the eyes, not when she'd been taken because of him. She'd suffered because of him. Except for little flashes, the old Ginny was gone. Because of him.
He slid his hand against the silky fabric of the cloak.
Perhaps it was because Moony was the last Marauder, but Harry was struck with the sudden urge to talk to the old wolf. He gulped in a breath and glanced at his watch: he had ten minutes before he had to get to his class. With Ginny. And before he could stop himself, he threw some floo powder into the hearth, stuck his head in and yelled, "Lupin residence!"
Harry did not even have to yell for him. Remus Lupin sat in his dressing gown, gaping at Harry around a piece of toast. He mumbled something that sounded like "Harry?"
"Er, hi," said Harry.
Remus swallowed. "Hello, Harry," he said cautiously. "Er - how are you?"
"I'm fine," Harry said automatically. "How are you? And Dora? And Teddy?"
"They're fine. They're getting ready for a playdate with Victoire," Remus said. "Bill Weasley's daughter," he added pointedly.
"I know who Victoire is," Harry said. He generally tried not to listen when Dora talked about them, but some things did manage to break through. "And that's great. It sounds like fun."
Remus eyed him silently, still looking slightly stunned and confused. "Not that I mind the impromptu chat, Harry, but did you need anything?" he asked when it became clear that Harry wasn't going to say anything.
"How are Ron and Hermione?" he blurted.
The old wolf's eyes widened with surprise, and he leaned back into his chair. "Ron and Hermione?" he repeated.
"Er," said Harry. "Yeah." He cleared his throat. "Are they doing well?"
"I expect so," said Remus. "They're living together. Molly has been pushing for them to get married, but they appear to be taking their time."
"They've got plenty of that," said Harry. "Ron's an Auror, right?" he asked, as if he didn't know.
"He is," Remus confirmed. "He's still very junior, but Macalby and Winton say that he's doing very well. Moving up through the ranks quickly. He's better than Dora at Stealth and Tracking, that's for sure."
Harry smiled. "And Hermione?"
"She's still at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," he said. "But she's starting to think she can make more of an impact in Magical Law Enforcement."
"She once told the Minister for Magic that she'd never pursue a career in Magical Law," Harry said, mostly to himself. The fact that she was now considering that very thing made him smile. Ron must be thrilled to tease her, he thought.
"People change," Remus shrugged. There was something unfathomable in his eyes, and it made Harry want to look away.
"I know," said Harry. "Listen, I've got to go..." Talking about Ron and Hermione—actually picturing them going on with their lives, making adult decisions, worrying about marriage and jobs…it was all just a bit too much right now. He felt a bit cowardly as Remus nodded at him, an all-too-knowing look on his face.
"Call again, Harry," Remus said softly.
Harry swallowed and nodded. "I will."
The flames went out and Harry stared at the black ash in the grate until his eyes began to hurt. The longer he sat, the more his thoughts strayed to Ginny. Her parting shot really rankled. He knew he wasn't cut out to teach; he did just fine with the practical stuff, but the theory for Defense Against the Dark Arts had come so instinctively that it was a bit like trying to dissect and explain what each jerk of a muscle or flexing of a grip while flying could do.
Hermione had always been the one to plan.
It isn't really my fault, Harry thought grouchily. It's not like I had a decent DADA professor every year.
But there had been one in particular who had taught Harry quite a lot.
An hour later, Harry stared around at his second year Gryffindor and Slytherin students. They might be only twelve, but they were a robust lot, and the sooner they learned the better off they would be. "Listen," he said. They watched him attentively; it was still sort of unnerving. "I know I haven't been the best professor. But that's going to change."
One girl raised her hand. "You're good at the spells and stuff," she said fairly.
"Er, thanks," he said. "The point is... I've forgotten to give you the very first lesson on Defense. Though you're getting it a bit soon than me. I heard it in my fourth year."
"The year you were in the Triwizard Tournament?" one of the Slytherin boys - I really need to learn their names, Harry thought - asked eagerly.
"Yeah," said Harry. "Now, the person who taught me was actually a Death Eater. He'd locked the real Mad-Eye Moody - the man who was supposed to be our professor - into a magical trunk." Some of them exchanged glances. The three Gryffindors in the back began to whisper furiously. "Don't worry!" Harry said, raising his hand. "Mad-Eye wasn't killed - not for a few years, anyway - he was kept alive so the Death Eater could keep using his body..."
This did not help.
"The Death Eater stole the professor's body?" The boy Gryffindor in the back said incredulously.
"He was using Polyjuice Potion," Harry said. "It's actually pretty easy to make. I helped a friend of mine make it when I was your age, when Ron W"-but it was painful to mention that name in front of a class, so he interrupted himself with a pained grimace-"another friend of mine was possessed by an evil diary. You'd think that it'd be harder to steal bodies, but there you go."
"Steal bodies?" a Slytherin asked faintly. Harry decided that this was perhaps not the best topic of conversation. He didn't want to give them any ideas.
"The point is," Harry said bracingly. "Constant vigilance is the most important concept when it comes to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Danger can come from any direction; it isn't so much about memorizing loads of spells. It's about using the ones you know fast enough." He took a deep breath, hating what he was about to do. "And now I'm going to give you homework..."
They looked pale and unhappy and, for the first time, Harry felt like a real professor.