Dumbledore held his head in his hands, rubbing his already reddened temples as he stared blankly at his desk. Then, slowly, he reached for his whitened beard and scratched it absently.

"Did I do the right thing?" He asked, to nobody in particular.

Fawkes, happily curled up in his nest, twittered at him.

Albus felt a little of his unease subside as the melody washed over him.

Logically, he knew letting the unfortunate Mr. Longbottom take the blame for the delay of dear Harry's assistance was the right thing to do. Sure, it may cause some minor disagreements now, but in the long term it was valuable, perhaps necessary, to Harry's survival.

The logic did little to soothe him.

He sighed, his hand reaching out to his trademark sweet bowl. In the last few months, he had taken a liking to the muggle sweet "Skittles". They were much like every-flavoured beans, but far sweeter, with the added bonus that the manufacturers did not put prank flavours in with the rest. He stirred the bowl a little with his wizened old finger, staring forlornly at the ripples and crenulations of the sweets.

Vaguely, he registered the grinding of stone upon stone as the stone gargoyle shuffled itself out of the way. As footsteps began to echo up the stairs into his chamber, his posture changed. His back straightened, his shoulders set themselves back, and his face rearranged itself from a despondent glumness to his usual outwardly contented self.

"Headmaster." His Deputy began. "I've just dismissed the students to their classes. You were right, I think Harry did need it. You should have seen him, Albus. His face was glowing, or so one of my prefects tells me. Like a child on Christmas."

Dumbledore smiled. That, at least, was something. Really, making sure the boy was well supported was the least he could do, considering everything he'd have to go through. The boy had the Dursley's, of course, but it was important that he had connections in the Wizarding World.

"Thank you, Minerva. Is Emmeline settling in?"

"She seems well, and her and Severus have endeavoured to keep their tension at a simmering dislike for the time being. But Albus, are you quite certain this is wise? You know how close she was to James and Lily."

"I'm quite certain, Minerva. Skittle?" He gestured to the freshly stirred bowl.

Minerva curled her lip in distaste. "I really don't know why you persist with these muggle sweets, Albus. They're quite horrid."

Albus frowned, somewhat offended. "I quite like them, myself. The sugar helps accelerate one's mind."

Minerva didn't bother to dignify that with a response. "Will you make an announcement as to Quirinius' disappearance? The whole school is talking about it. I'm sure they'll be headlines about it before long."

"I have talked it over with the Minister, and he agrees with me that this should be kept silent. It would not do to incite panic over the situation. The Gringott's break-in had enough people riled up as it was. The Prophet shan't pursue the story if the Minister applies some pressure on them."

Minerva nodded, satisfied at that answer.

"Was there anything else?"

"No, Headmaster, that was all. I have a class soon, in any case."

Dumbledore nodded his goodbye as Minerva withdrew. Within moments, he heard the Gargoyle close shut behind her, and then he was alone again.

He sighed.

"I see you are burdened, child." A smug voice said from above.

"Phineas." Albus replied neutrally. "I'm quite well, actually."

"Which is why you have been moping about your office for days, I suppose."

"My business is my own, Phineas."

"Mmm, very true, very true. Well, if you're not in need of my assistance, I suppose I'll just go back to sleep then…" The portrait said slyly, keeping one eye on the current headmaster as he feigned returning to sleep.

Dumbledore stroked his beard for a moment, letting his hand run down the smooth white hairs.

"It's the boy, Phineas." He said finally.

"Oh?" Phineas opened both of his eyes, abandoning any pretence of disinterest. "Potter, I presume?"

Dumbledore looked up at him. "I have the distinct feeling you do not sleep half as much as you would have me believe."

The portrait shrugged. "Perhaps, perhaps not. But I believe we were talking about your deceptions?"

Dumbledore reached for another skittle, but stopped himself. It would not do to have the most powerful wizard of the age be overweight. "He needs to be trained. The prophecy, it says the boy must be the one to kill Voldemort. It can only be him."

"You're quite certain this is what the prophecy says? It wouldn't be the first time a prophecy has been misinterpreted. I myself had a rather nasty one attached to my 113th birthday, if I recall, but it turned out we were thinking of the other meaning of 'address'. It was all terribly embarrassing."

Dumbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose. "No, I'm quite sure. The prophecy was clear. Either must die at the hand of the other."

Phineas' face fell. "I see. Well, what is the problem? A blood traitor like you shouldn't have any issue sacrificing a poor boy for your goals of a mudblood infested dystopia."

Dumbledore shot a glare at the unrepentant portrait. "Ignoring your woeful misunderstanding of my philosophy, the issue is that if the boy is to survive his confrontation, he must be trained, and experienced."

Phineas cocked his head. "So? What is the problem?"

"The problem, Headmaster, is that I'm putting an eleven year old boy in mortal danger, and will have to do so again, destroying his childhood and quite possibly scarring him for life! What right to I have to do that to him?"

Phineas looked confused. "Well, its hardly desirable, I admit, but I fail to see what other choices you have. If you want the boy to survive, he must be experienced, not to mention powerful."

"I had hoped I could accomplish the prophecy this year. I lured Voldemort in with a trap, you see. Dangling his resurrection in front of him like bait on a hook. And he took it. But somehow, he just keeps surviving." His tone was rising now, almost becoming a shout. "And I had to watch an eleven year old boy, and his two friends, my students, risk their lives against a Dark Lord whilst I just sat here like an invalid old MAN." Dumbledore swiped at the bowl of skittles, throwing it off the desk and smashing in on the floor. Skittles and shards of glass scattered haphazardly about the room. Fawkes squawked in alarm, his old, wrinkled form looking at Albus in alarm. Albus breathed heavily, suddenly ashamed at his conduct. The anger..it reminded him far too much of his old self. Of the foolish young man whose rage had killed his younger sister.

Phineas raised an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic display of emotion. "My boy, you are an invalid old man. The duty of old men is not to do the work of their sons. The duty of old men is to pass on their knowledge and wisdom to those too young and foolish to listen. The boy may not like it now, but he will thank you when he fights this Voldemort of yours prepared, experienced, and ready to battle. Or would you rather have him confused, doubtful, and afraid?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I simply despise standing by. Watching, as the children that should have lived in peace and happiness are forced into yet another conflict. Voldemort will be more wary than ever now. He knows we almost had him. He won't show his face again for a long time. But when he does, it will be...horrific. It will be war."

"Between two groups of people who want to make inconsistent kinds of worlds, I see no remedy but force." Phineas quoted sagely.

Dumbledore smiled. "Oliver Wendell Holmes. Phineas, you surprise me."

Phineas jerked back a little. "A muggle said that? Well then, forget I said anything. The point is, war is a constant. You can pretend otherwise, Headmaster, but in the end this little squabble of yours was always going to end in blood. The question now is whose blood it will be."

Dumbledore nodded sadly. "The boy cannot die. He is an innocent. You are right, Phineas. The boy must be trained. But this war has already claimed his parents lives, I will not let it consume his childhood as well. I will train him when the time comes. But for now, our best chance at Voldemort is gone. Harry nearly died trying to kill him. The boy deserves a life, before his world turns upside down."

Phineas nodded. "Whatever you say. It hardly matters to me." With that, the portrait closed its eyes, and drifted back off to sleep.

Dumbledore nodded to himself, deep in thought. Yes. Yes, he had been right. He hadn't wanted to stun poor Mr. Longbottom, but he knew now it had to be done. He clenched his fist as he thought about how close they'd come to total victory. Now, poor Harry was destined for years of struggle against Riddle. It was unpleasant, but he no longer felt guilty. He had done the best he could. His gamble had almost paid off. Harry had almost been spared years of pain. And even though he had not, at least now he had experience. The boy knew it could be done. Harry Potter would live, and one day he would pick up the pieces scattered by the failings of Albus Dumbledore. He scoffed. The greatest wizard of the age indeed. Yes, Harry Potter's time would come. But for now..

Albus pulled out his wand, and began the slow process of putting the glass bowl back together.

"We've got a new Defence teacher! Fred tried to convince me that she's part-troll, but I think he was just having me on." Ron said eagerly as they walked down the long stone corridor.

"Whoever she is, she can't be any worse than the last one." Neville said gloomily.

Harry ignored him, still intent on punishing the boy for his gross incompetence. He knew he shouldn't have trusted Neville to do…well, anything unrelated to Herbology, frankly.

"Maybe Fred's telling the truth. If he is, you're in real trouble." Harry smirked. "She might have been its distant relative."

Ron look confused for a second, then laughed.

"Harry!"

Harry looked behind him, where Fay Dunbar and her redheaded friend (Harry couldn't quite remember her name) looked at him eagerly.

"Is it true?" Demanded Fay. "Lee Jordan told me that Dumbledore had a duel with Quirrell because he was trying to blow up the school! That's why we've got this new teacher, you see."

Harry smiled benevolently at the girl. "I think Lee's just having you on, Fay. Quirrell was trying to steal a magical artifact, that's why he's been fired."

Fay mouth formed a small 'o' of surprise, and expression mirrored by her friend.

"Quirrell? Try to steal?" She pouted for a second. "I didn't think he had it in him."

The two girls tittered, and fell back behind the trio of boys.

Harry shook his head at this new rumour. It had been less than an hour since his return party, and already he'd heard at least thirty different stories about what had happened. The only constant between them all was that Harry, like the heroic Boy-Who-Lived that he was, had tried to stop Quirrell from pulling off some dastardly scheme.

Ron viciously kicked the floor where he walked, causing him to stumble. After he had recovered, he grimaced. "The way they tell it, you'd think you were the only one there."

It was true. Hermione and to a lesser extent Ron had both been excised from the rumours, although Ron, the more popular of the pair, seemed to have been placed in the 'trusty sidekick' role. Admittedly, this was not far from the truth, but it still seemed to rankle with the redhead.

"Don't be bitter, Ron." Harry said in mild reproof as they turned a corner. "You went toe to toe with Voldemort," He ignored the winces on the faces of those around him. "Voldemort himself, and not only survived, but won. Some of the best wizards of the age haven't done nearly so well. I know what you did, and so does the faculty, I'll bet."

Ron smiled, his fragile ego assuaged. "You think Snape might give me a pass for once?" He asked enthusiastically.

"I think you could have killed him and still not pass Potions."

Ron and Neville laughed. Together, the trio rounded the final corner. Halfway up the corridor, Harry could just make Daphne, Tracy, and Milicent walk into the Defence Classroom.

His mind shied away from thinking about those three. Those three led to Slytherin, Slytherin led to Malfoy, and Malfoy…

No, he wasn't thinking about them.

"Ron!" He said abruptly, without any follow.

"Wassat?" Ron said, startled.

"Er..um..you never told me, how did you and Hermione get through those flames?"

Ron's brow creased for a moment. "Oh, right. Well, after you ran off, without us, by the way, Hermione said that if there was so little in the bottle, how could you have gotten through when Quirrell had already had some? We looked at the bottle, and it was full up again. So I swallowed, then she did, and we ran on in." He frowned for a second. "Fat load of good that did you. I still can't believe he took us down so quickly. I mean, it was Quirrell."

Harry raised his eyebrow. "I'm not really sure how much of Quirrell was still in there at the end."

There was an awkward moment of silence between the three as they considered the Professor's sad, if not entirely underserved fate. They were still silent when they walked into the Defence Classroom. Hermione, of course, was sitting in the front row, her quill out and parchment in front of her. She smiled shyly at the three of them as they walked in, before turning her head back to look at her parchment.

Harry smiled back at her, although he was quite sure she had missed it. The little group hesitated for a second, unsure as to where they should sit. They milled about awkwardly, unsure as to whether they should resist the beckoning temptation of the status quo, or to move to the front.

"Er.. should we..I mean, do you reckon..?" Ron demurred.

Harry pursed his lips. "I dunno, I guess it can't hurt. I don't think anybody sits up there with her, so…"

Cautiously, the three of them shuffled over to the front desk, where Hermione sat alone. She didn't look up at them, apparently too engrossed by The Standard Book of Spells, Chapter 9 to register their presence.

Harry cleared his throat. Startled, she looked up at them, a look of surprise on her face.

"Oh! Hello." She said simply, as if afraid to say anything more.

"Er..hi, Hermione." Ron squeaked awkwardly. "Does anybody, you know," He made a flapping gesture with his hands. "Sit here?"

"Oh! No, I – No, nobody else sits here." She fell silent, a hopeful look on her face.

"Well…that's that then, isn't it?" With that, Ron threw his books on the desk next to Hermione's, the thick textbook whamming on the table loudly. Hermione flinched, either at the noise or Ron's all-too-casual treatment of the repository of knowledge, but swallowed her criticism.

Neville and Harry fell in behind, with Harry sitting on the girl's left, and Neville sat next to him. Conversation, however, was not in their futures, it seemed.

"Greetings, class." A regal, older woman with greying hair and high cheekbones strode in, barely even looking at the class as she marched to the board.

There were some mumbled "hellos" from the assembled students, but the majority of the class just stared blankly at her as she turned to face the class. Behind her, a piece of chalk floated into the air, hovering in front of the board. As she spoke, it began writing.

"My name is Emmeline Vance," She declared primly, "but you will refer to me as 'Miss Vance' or 'Professor Vance'." Behind her, the chalk finished spelling out her name, before falling back down to its perch.

She spoke crisply, with almost no pauses between her sentences. "I will tolerate no mischief or tomfoolery in my classroom. Together, we shall be venturing into the dangerous world of curses and jinxes, hexes and charms. If I see anybody abusing the privilege of their magic, I will see to it they will be disabused of the fool notion they have the right to do whatever they wish."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could swear he could see the blood draining from Malfoy's face. Admittedly, the rest of the class was faring little better as they received the distinct impression that Ms. Vance was not going to be nearly as pliable as Quirrell was.

"The first goal of Defence against the Dark Arts is in the name, children." Vance pulled her wand out from her sleeve. "You are not here to become warriors, or intrepid adventurers. You are here to learn how to protect yourself against all manner of beasts. By this Friday, I expect you all to have written at least half a page on Gytrashes, the circumstances under which they attack, and the best method for protecting oneself against them."

United for once, both Gryffindors and Slytherins groaned in protest at the assignment. Vance, however, was having none of it.

"Silence!" She commanded haughtily, like a queen speaking unto her subjects. Immediately, the class went still. Harry looked to his left, where Hermione was staring at the professor with wide, admiring eyes.

Nearly an hour later, and Professor Vance was proving to be as formidable a teacher as her introduction had suggested. She spoke crisply, with nary a syllable wasted. She had little patience for misbehaviour, but her presence did not seem as severe as she had first suggested. She had been very willing to help struggling students, a trait Harry, who had at times been something of a struggling student (generally due to extenuating circumstances, in his opinion) approved of greatly. But, an hour of a lecture Harry could have given himself did not make for thrilling listening, and Harry had often found himself being reduced to scribbling inane characters on his parchment. That had not been a complete waste, however. Harry had almost finished making his own alphabet.

"Whilst Lumos may not at first glance be an effective defense spell, it is, in reality, a valuable tool for any wizard." Vance explained, pointing at the board where a piece of chalk was busily writing down uses for the spell. "The bright light will often startle or temporarily disarm a Dark creature, giving you time to run from the beast." Vance finished her soliloquy, before glancing down at Seamus' notes. She creased her brow. "Lumos is spelt L-U-M-O-S." She called out to the class, before moving further back down the rows of desks.

Harry scribbled illegibly on his parchment, barely listening to the lecture. It wasn't that it was uninteresting, but he had more than enough experience with dark creatures to know the various uses of the Lumos spell to know what was what. To be stuck in the same room with somebody who didn't even know how to spell the name of the spell was…uninspiring, to say the least.

"Your handwriting will be better when somebody else is required to read it, I trust?" Vance reproved over Harry's shoulder, making him jump in his seat. He turned around to see a pair of glimmering, mauve eyes staring at him.

"Oh! Er, yes, Professor, of course." Harry stammered, caught off guard. Moody would have had a fit.

"I should hope so." She said dryly, before moving on to the front of the class.

She watched the class write in silence for a few moments more, before holding up an august hand. "That shall be all for today. Remember, homework on my desk by four o'clock Friday." She stared intensely at the class for a moment, before relenting. "Dismissed." She lazily waved her hand at the door, before turning to the board. As the class began to rise from their seats, she waved her wand, and a pair of brushes began to rub down the chalkboard.

Ron, looking more than a little shell-shocked, turned to stare at Harry. "She doesn't really expect us to do half a page on the..the, er…"

"Gytrashes." Hermione supplied as she calmly picked up her books.

"Gytrashes, right. She doesn't really expect us to do half a page on them in two days, right? I've still got an essay on Dragon Blood." He moaned, his hands outstretched in a plea for mercy.

Harry frowned. "Wasn't that due last week?"

Hermione gasped. "You haven't done that yet?" She looked shocked that somebody could even consider not getting their homework in at least a day early, let alone have it be a week late.

"Well…I had stuff on. Important stuff. But if it's so important to you, you could do it." Ron offered, a weak grin on his face.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but refrained from making any disparaging comments. "Not a chance. But we'd best make sure that doesn't happen again." She said, smiling at Ron encouragingly. "Dragon Blood is on page 27, by the way." She stood up, but faltered a moment. "A week. Honestly, Ron." She shook her head again.

She started walking for the door, pushing past Harry and Neville. Then, like she was caught on some invisible elastic band, stopped. She turned around to look at them. "Well? Come on, we still have an hour until History of Magic! We can get a start on the homework!" She said, far more excited than any reasonably sane person had any right to be.

Harry, Ron and Neville all exchanged looks ranging from befuddlement to resignation. Then, reaching a consensus, they made to follow her.

In the following days, little changed around the Castle. The buzz about Quirrell's disappearance and Potter's mysterious injury died down, to be replaced by other, more mundane rumours. Nothing about the incident was confirmed nor denied by the school, nor were there any mentions of the matter in the Daily Prophet. The Quibbler, of course, made some note of it, but nobody read that rag anyway. Apart from a few articles, the world did not remark on the curious case of Quirinius Quirrell, and the few who did cared only because a far more competent teacher was now educating their child. A particularly diligent observer, however, may have noticed one thing that had changed. For the first time in many, many years, Hermione Granger did not sit alone.