Here it is, just like I promised, beginning of September. And it's a really long one this time: I'm not kidding. It's sixteen pages on Microsoft Word. I will update Underwater Adventure soon enough, for those of you who're following both, but I can't set a date because I don't want to set one and find that I can't meet it for some reason or another. So just keep holding your breath and waiting, and I'm sorry that I can't just write each book in one night, otherwise I would. Disclaimer applies: it's JK Rowling's. And I still don't understand why we have these.

Although he was dreading it, September first could not come quickly enough for Harry. Tensions were running high at the Weasley house. They had received- secondhand- the information that Percy had retained his post as Junior Assistant to the Minister- to Domohov Bokonovsky, the Death Eater. Mrs. Weasley had receded to her room and not come out for a day, and when she emerged, she looked bedraggled and weary, and a mention of anything having to do with Percy, no matter how vague the connection, set her crying again. Mr. Weasley was furious, and usually broke things when the same topics were brought up. He developed bags under his eyes, and his hair seemed to be thinning faster that usual.

Bill was still not speaking to anyone. He had gone through each day sullen and silent, and it seemed as though a fire inside him had gone out. He grunted one-word answers whenever someone addressed him, and he stayed in his room almost all day, brooding. Ginny was the only one he allowed to follow him, and Harry had once heard her pleading with him to stop his self-exile. This had driven him over the edge; he had furiously raged that none of them had liked Fleur at all, and they were glad she was dead, and then he'd stormed into his room and slammed the door behind him. Ginny sat outside his room for hours, crying, begging him to open it, and when he didn't, she went to her own room and missed dinner.

Ron and Ginny seemed at a loss as to what to do; their family was falling apart, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Harry often walked into a room to find Hermione and Ginny talking, and more than once, the latter's face had been streaked with tears. Ginny seemed more distant from him, as though the divisions in her family were tearing rifts between them. Harry couldn't blame her for being preoccupied, but he could not extinguish the jealous spark that crept up every time he saw her talking to someone else. Ron was the same way; he had become more sober and solemn, withdrawing moodily whenever Percy was mentioned or Bill retreated to his room or when his mother started crying. Harry saw all of this, and the worst part was that he was powerless to help.

The Burrow occasionally had visitors, but, as though they sensed the dour mood, they never stayed long. Tonks' bright countenance seemed to fade slightly whenever she crossed the threshold, and Professor McGonagall always had a sympathetic look on her face when talking to one of the Weasleys.

The first day in September dawned cold and rainy. Harry levitated his trunk down the stairs and into the trunk of one of the three Muggle taxis that had been hired to transport them and all their goods to Kings' Cross. The drivers looked skeptical as one after another, Hedwig, Pigwidgeon, Crookshanks, and Arnold the pygmy puff were loaded into the back seat of one of the vehicles. Their chests were so big that only one would fit in the trunk of each car. They squeezed in around the various animals and Ron's trunk (the one that had to be put in the back seat) made their way to Kings' Cross Station.

Harry clambered out of the car awkwardly, heaving his chest out after the driver had popped the lid of the trunk and taking Hedwig out of the next car in line. A gatekeeper placed them on the trolley and wheeled them towards platform ten for him. Ron and Hermione followed close behind.

"Oy, Harry!" a voice called from the crowd in front of him.

Fred and George Weasley elbowed their way through to stand before him, grinning broadly. They wrung his hand. "Good to see you, Harry," George said jovially, as Fred turned to his mother and kissed her on the cheek. Mrs. Weasley's face brightened considerably.

"We thought we'd come to see you all off," George informed them as he hugged his father.

"Yeah, wish most of you luck in your last year of school," Fred added.

"And as for the rest," George said, smirking at Ginny, "just don't hurt yourself."

Ginny punched him in the arm. "I wonder who's more likely to die this year," she said conversationally. "You or me."

"Them," Harry and Ron said in unison.

Fred, noticing that his mother was uneasy with the subject of death, changed it quickly. "So, Harry, Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

He shrugged, embarrassed.

"Well, just feel lucky that you don't have to deal with us," George said.

"Yeah, I suppose that's a bright side," Harry said, grimacing. "I feel sorry for all the other ones."

"Except Umbridge," Fred stated matter-of-factly.

"Well, of course…"

They ducked through the wall between platforms nine and ten and found themselves facing a scarlet steam engine and surrounded by a bustling crowd of witches and wizards.

"Hey, Ron, Hermione, Harry," said Dean, a black boy in his year as he passed.

"Hi, Dean," Harry only barely managed to stutter. Dean had grown about six inches, and he was now as tall as Ron.

The whistle blew for the first time. Mrs. Weasley embraced each of her children, Ron, and Hermione, and hugged a passing five-year-old for good measure, and they boarded the train. Harry thought Mrs. Weasley looked like she was going to cry again, and he tried to console her by saying, "We'll be careful, Mrs. Weasley."

"I know you will, Harry," she said, sounding as though she had a bad head cold.

With another loud whistle, the steam engine started slowly and gained speed as they chugged out of the station. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny waved at the Weasleys on the platform until they were out of sight, and then settled down to find a compartment.

The first thing that struck Harry was how empty the Hogwarts' Express was this year. Most compartments had only two or three people in them, and a lot were empty. They found one near the back, put their animals in the luggage rack, and settled down comfortably.

"Why d'you reckon it's so empty?" Ron asked as soon as Hermione had slid the compartment door shut.

"A lot of kids aren't going to be coming back to school this year," she said sadly, sitting down and taking out a pair of knitting needles. "Their parent won't think it's safe."

"They're safer at Hogwarts than anywhere else," Ron said crossly.

"I know, but most parents are overly protective of their children and want them as close as possible, because they're laboring under the illusion that as parents, they can keep their kids safe."

"…What?" Ron said.

"Never mind. I don't expect you to understand, you're a boy. Just trust me, it's because parents think they're safer at home."

"Oh. Exploding Snap, Harry?"

The compartment door slid open after Harry had singed his eyebrows twice, and Neville Longbottom appeared. "Hi, guys. Has anyone seen Trevor?"

They all shook their heads. Neville came inside dejectedly. "I'll find him eventually, I suppose," he said, sitting down opposite Hermione, who was knitting another hat for the house elves. "What're you up to?"

"Exploding Snap," Ron said absently, deep in concentration as he completed his tower. "Care to play?"

"No," Neville said sadly. "I'm not very good at it."

He pulled out One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi and began to read.

It didn't take long before they had another visitor. Luna Lovegood poked her head into the compartment. She was wearing a necklace of pebbles and earrings shaped like mini models of the solar system. "I've been looking for you all over the place," she said to Neville. "I found something this summer you might be interested in." From a huge pocket in her over-large overalls, she produced a writhing, green blob. "It's a frilious figelous," she said proudly, dropping it in his hand. "We found it when we were hunting for crumple-horned snorcacks."

Neville's face lit up. "Wow," he said, prodding it, "it's amazing. This is the only plant with muscles that doesn't need roots to grow. It's almost intelligent enough to be considered an animal, except that it doesn't have a brain…"

Harry looked warily at it. His last encounter with one of Neville's plants had not come off so well.

The rain continued to pound against the windows, and it seemed to get dark a lot earlier than usual. The lanterns in the compartment flickered on just as Neville put aside his book and stretched. "Who do you think is going to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher this year?" he asked conversationally.

There was an awkward silence, and Harry coughed uncomfortably. He wasn't going to say anything, but Hermione's foot nudged him. So he compensated. "Er…" he said.

"I wonder if it's someone we know," Neville continued, oblivious of Harry's discomfort. "It could be anyone, really, but it has to be someone good, because defense is probably one of the most important things we're going to learn this year, what with You-Know-Who back and all…"

Harry felt himself growing hot. Hermione kicked him again. He stayed silent.

Apparently she decided to let it go, because she changed the subject. "Have you noticed that there aren't that many people here this year?"

Another hour passed, and then Hermione stood up stiffly. "We'd all better change," she said, pulling her school robes out of her trunk. "We'll be there in a few minutes."

Harry took out his own robes and pulled them over his head. Hermione handed him a comb, which he used to attack his unruly hair without effect.

The train ground slowly to a halt, letting out a hissing noise as they reached the platform. They disembarked slightly apprehensively, getting soaked through within minutes by the pouring rain.

Harry heard a familiar call through the night: "Firs' years, over here! Come with me!"

"Hagrid!" he shouted at the huge silhouette across the platform.

"Hey there, Harry!" he called back, waving a gigantic hand and almost knocking a little first year off his feet.

They clambered into the carriages, welcoming the dryness, Harry patting the thestral that drew it before getting in. They lurched forward and made their way up to the huge, looming outline in the sky: the castle that was Hogwarts.

They crammed into the entrance hall, no one willing to wait outside in the rain. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Harry could barely hear one another in the hubbub that reigned. Someone screamed; Peeves the poltergeist and swooped down and blown a raspberry in her ear.

Harry felt a hand grasp his shoulder, and he whirled around to find Professor McGonagall behind him. "Come with me," she said loudly, pulling him towards a side door.

Once out of the noise of the crowd, she led him through several obscure passages he had never realized existed, and they came out in the Great Hall. Most of the teachers were already seated; they looked up as they came in. Hagrid was absent; presumably, he was still coming across the lake with the first years. It looked as though McGonagall had already told them who their new colleague was to be; most of them were gazing at him with delight, though some looked as though they thought their headmistress could've done better. McGonagall motioned to a seat between a huge, empty one- Hagrid's- and that of a man that Harry had never really noticed before. Now that he thought about it, he could vaguely remember seeing him around the castle, but he didn't know who it was.

He sat down awkwardly; the last time he had seen the Great Hall from the teachers' point of view had been at the Yule ball nearly three years ago, when he had been a school champion.

The man on his right side turned to him and smiled. "I'm Jorden Andrews," he said, sticking out his hand.

Harry took it awkwardly. "Harry Potter."

"Pleased to meet you."

One thing Harry noticed that rather pleased him was that Jorden Andrews did not look at him like most others did upon first meeting him. He didn't feel as though he were being judged by something the other had read or heard about him. Andrews treated him like a person, not like a celebrity. Harry decided that he rather liked him. "What do you teach?" he asked.

"Ancient Runes," he replied. "You're Defense Against the Dark Arts, I've been told."

Harry nodded.

"You're awfully young to have this post, don't you think?"

He shrugged. "Yes. But you can't be all that much older." It was true; he didn't look more than twenty-eight.

Andrews laughed. "It doesn't take much training to teach Ancient Runes," he said. "I took the class from my third year here, and then one year out of school, and I was hired on the spot."

"Well, it can't take much training to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, either." Harry said ruefully, beginning to realize just how out of his league he was. "I haven't even been through seven years of school."

He smiled. "Yes, but you've been through so much more than school can give you, too."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. They were on the subject of his fame again, and he didn't like it. "Yeah, well…"

Suddenly the doors to the Great Hall were opened, and students came pouring in. Harry sank down in his chair, hoping no one would notice him, even though he knew sometime- tonight, in fact, when McGonagall introduced any new teachers- they would all know.

Indeed, no sooner had people began sitting down than Harry noticed an increased intensity in the whispers, and he saw many people point his way. Ron and Hermione grinned up at him and waved, Neville looked utterly astounded, and Dean Thomas was pumping his fist in the air jovially. He could tell there was a mixed reaction to the sight of him sitting up at the staff table; none of the Slytherins looked too happy, the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs seemed very divided on the issue, and the Gryffindors were ecstatic. Harry, looking over the Gryffindor table, realized with a jolt that he hardly knew anyone there; now that he was in his seventh year, all the older ones had moved on and he didn't know very many younger than him. Gryffindor house didn't seem the same without them. His first-year Quidditch team was no longer there, Fred and George Weasley were gone, and the Gryffindor table looked sadly empty without them. A lump formed in his throat as looked out over the four house tables; they had lost about a third of their number. Harry didn't see Seamus Finnegan, the other boy in his dormitory besides Ron, Neville, Dean, and himself.

When all the students were seated (Harry still felt many eyes and whispers upon him), Professor McGonagall stood up and clapped her hands loudly. Silence fell like a plague across the Great Hall, and she cleared her throat to speak.

"As it seems our first years are not yet here," she said, gazing around the hall, "We will begin with—oh, never mind, they've just arrived. We will begin with the Sorting, as usual."

Indeed, a rather short line of bedraggled and thoroughly wet first years had just trekked through the door, led on by a grinning Hagrid. The huge man made his way up to the staff table and sat down next to Harry, winking at him happily. Harry smiled back.

Argus Filch, the caretaker, was crossing the floor, carrying an old, patched and frayed, black wizards' hat and a three-legged stool. He set the stool down and put the hat on top of it, then walked off the stage.

The school waited in silence as the hat stirred slightly. Then it began to speak.

Many centuries ago

Long before this castle rose

Apollo was god of the sun

Handsome, as so many know.

Gaia, goddess of earth

In her palace high

And Zeus, mighty Zeus

God of air and sky.

Poseidon was god of the sea;

Water was his lair

Deities of four elements:

Fire, Water, Earth, and Air.

With only three,

Death's bell would toll,

For each sustained

A vital role.

Breath the air, walk the earth

Everyone needs to

Drink the water, feel the fire,

Not excluding you.

Millennia after their legacies died:

Apollo, Zeus, Gaia, and Poseidon

Came a man who wished to find

A way to train a young one.

For a cause noble and gallant

A castle large was built,

Much like the four elements,

So it could not wilt.

Upholding it were pillars strong,

Unwilling to let it fall,

Standing there for centuries,

Solid and sound, strong and tall.

Without its mighty pillars four,

It would collapse from within,

Like air, earth, fire, and water,

Apollo, Gaia, Zeus, Poseidon.

Gryffindor, with courage strong

Mirrored God Apollo,

While Hufflepuff, with cheery mood,

Represented Gaia.

Ravenclaw, her intelligence,

Could be compared to Zeus

And Slytherin pureblooded,

Was Poseidon, in truth.

All four stood together,

Unified and strong,

Supporting what they believed,

Giving right for wrong.

Their legacy still stands today;

We must not be divided.

We must be friends amongst ourselves,

Truth in each confided.

No one can hold the school alone,

Or topple and crumble, it will.

We must stand united, one and all,

Or face destruction still.

Now I will look deep inside you,

Find where you're best suited,

Where you will best help support

This school, long since founded.

There was a rousing round of applause. Professor McGonagall stepped forward smartly and began calling out names of the first years, who came out of the line and, shivering, sat on the stool and placed the Sorting Hat on their heads. Harry watched in interest as a small boy with dark hair approached cautiously, reminding him of himself. He had only found out he was a wizard two weeks previously, and it had all seemed like a dream to him. He remembered the Sorting Hat's words…

"Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes—and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting. . . . So where shall I put you?"

Harry gripped the edges of the stool and thought, Not Slytherin, not Slytherin.

"Not Slytherin, eh?" said the small voice. "Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that—no? Well, if you're sure—better be GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry shook himself out of his reverie as the small boy was placed in Hufflepuff. Another one came forward, by the name of Stephen Mclean, and was sorted into Slytherin.

A variety of eleven-year-olds was sorted into different houses, and they all looked tiny, even as close as Harry sat. He could hear someone's stomach rumble and someone else engaged in a whispering conversation, and he could tell that the school was anxious for the Sorting to be over.

Professor McGonagall finally called out the last name, and the final first year stepped forward—"Zhou, Heather"—and was sorted into Gryffindor. Filch took the stool and the Sorting Hat off to the side of the hall.

McGonagall cleared her throat once more. "I ask your attention for just one more moment, please," she said loudly.

The whispers that had broken out when the Sorting had ended died away.

"As you all know," she said, peering around the room with a spark of sorrow in her eye, "Professor Albus Dumbledore was killed last year in an attack by the Death Eaters."

The whispers started once more, and several eyes flickered back up to Harry. He sank a little lower in his seat.

"Now," Professor McGonagall continued, in a slightly raised voice, and silence took precedence once more, "Being the assistant headmistress, I was asked at the end of last year by the Minister of Magic to take up Professor Dumbledore's vacated post as the new headmistress of Hogwarts.

"I ask you all to bear with me, for I know that Professor Dumbledore is a man who will never be able to be replaced entirely, no matter how hard I try. I am perfectly competent in the governing of this school, but Dumbledore went far beyond that when he was here. He was a mentor, a protector, and a friend to all who would allow him to be. I know that I cannot take his place. But I will do my best."

A memory suddenly welled up, stronger than any he had felt in a long time, and a lump rose in his throat. He was crouching under an invisibility cloak in Hagrid's cabin, watching as Cornelius Fudge told Dumbledore that he was going to be suspended from the school until the attacks stopped. His headmaster's words came back to him, as clearly as they night they had been said.

"I shall never have left Hogwarts until none here are loyal to me."

A lump rose in Harry's throat and he could feel his eyes beginning to sting. He hurriedly wiped them on his napkin and tried to focus on Professor McGonagall, but his vision was still swimming.

When he regained control of himself, McGonagall was saying, "But to a happier note. Mr. Filch has asked me to remind you that there is a blanket ban on any items bought at a store called Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, as well as a list of five hundred and twenty-three additional items that can be seen posted in each of the house dormitories this year. I would like to tell all first years—and remind those older ones who may have forgotten—that the Forbidden Forrest is strictly out of bounds. Extra safety measures have been imposed on the castle again this year, including extensive spells and a constant guard of aurors who are allowed anywhere on the grounds. I ask that you give them your full cooperation and that you adhere to the rules, for your own safety. There is a new rule that you are not allowed out of the castle after dark without a teacher present." She gazed sternly around the hall, and her eyes landed on Ron and Hermione. "Even if no one can see you."

Harry gulped sheepishly. She was staring at Hermione and Ron, but the comment was meant for him. He was going to have to use his invisibility cloak with a bit more care.

"And now, as I'm sure you have all noticed, we have added two new teachers to our staff this year. If you could please stand up, both of you…"

Harry looked around him nervously and stood up. The other new teacher was a woman on the other end of the long staff table. She was in her mid-thirties, with dirty-blonde hair and a very amiable look about her. Professor McGonagall said, gesturing to the her, "This is Professor Abigail Lasley. As I am going to have other duties this year, we needed a new Transfiguration teacher. Professor Lasley has worked in the Ministry of Magic as an auror for ten years, and she got an Outstanding N.E.W.T. in Transfiguration, and that was from me, so you can rest assured she is qualified."

There were a few chuckles scattered across the hall.

"I am quite convinced that there are very few people who can teach you more about Transfiguration that she."

The applause was enthusiastic and heartfelt; she looked like a cheerful person and a good teacher. Harry, however, was too uncomfortable to notice this; his turn was next.

"And of course," she paused, and her voice hardened, "Severus Snape is no longer teaching here. I hardly have any need to introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, but for those of you who have been living under a rock for the last seven years, this is Harry Potter…"

Her next words were drowned out by a wave of tumultuous noise. There was a chorus of boos from the Slytherin table, but these could hardly be heard over the screaming cheers from the Gryffindors and what seemed to be the majority of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws.

Harry felt himself turning hot and couldn't help but grin sheepishly. Professor McGonagall, shaking her head in exasperation, motioned for both of them to sit down. Harry did so with no small measure of relief.

"Well," said Professor McGonagall as soon as the noise died down enough that she could get a few words in, "I wish you all a wonderful year. And now, I assume you're all quite hungry, so… let the feast begin!"

The tables magically filled up with loads of delicious foods. Harry helped himself to a serving of mashed potatoes and accepted a plate of stake from Jorden, who grinned at him. "Looks like you're pretty popular."

Harry shrugged, embarrassed, and handed him the rice.

Three helpings of butterscotch pudding later, Harry was feeling uncomfortably full. The noise in the Great Hall had settled down to a sleepy hum, and Harry only wanted to go to bed.

Indeed, the plates cleared a moment later, and Professor McGonagall stood once more. "It seems as though you're all exhausted, and of course your first priority is to get plenty of rest for the beginning of classes tomorrow. Goodnight!"

There was a loud scraping noise as all the benches were pushed out, and students began filing out of the Hall. Assuming this meant that he was excused as well, Harry gave Hagrid one more smile and slipped down to disappear among the mass of students.

Disappearing, however, was not as easy as it once was. He heard more than one shout of "Professor, can I have your autograph?" before he got to Ron and Hermione. The latter vanished into the throng, saying it was her duty to show the first years where to go, and Harry and Ron made the way up to their dormitory by means of several shortcuts.

Realizing when they got up there that they didn't know what the password was, they were obliged to wait until Hermione arrived, leading the scared-looking first years in a silent line. She shook her head. "Draconus Dormiens," she said, and the portrait of the Fat Lady slid open.

Harry was about to duck through the portrait hole when he heard his name.

"Potter!"

He whirled around to find Professor McGonagall standing there. "I'd like you to come to my office, if you please."

"Of course," Harry said, nonplussed. She led him through the hallway to the statue of the stone gargoyle that sat outside her office.

"Flavius Belby," she said smartly, and the gargoyle jumped aside.

Wondering what on earth a Flavius Belby was, Harry followed her up the winding staircase and into her office.

It had changed; this was the office of Minerva McGonagall, not of Albus Dumbledore. There were none of the odd instruments that had used to be there, nor was Fawkes's perch there. It looked far more organized that Dumbledore's had; though Harry could not remember it being disorganized, McGonagall had a way of making everything look perfectly orderly. She motioned at him to sit down in the chair across from her desk.

"Now," she said matter-of-factly, surveying him over her square glasses in a way that reminded him painfully of Dumbledore, "I have several matters to discuss with you. You are a new teacher, as strange as I know it seems to you, and there are some things you need to know."

Harry nodded.

She smiled slightly. "There are privileges that come with being a teacher. You are allowed to go into the staffroom, use the faculty bathrooms, et cetera. Your office is the normal Defense Against the Dark Arts office, and your bedroom adjoins that, though you do have permission to sleep in your dormitory and use Gryffindor Tower. Here is the key." She opened a drawer in her desk and sorted through a few other things before finding it. She handed it to him. "Don't lose it," she said sternly. "I only have one more. I know that most teachers have leave to go to Hogsmeade whenever they choose, but you are still only seventeen, and I don't feel it's safe for anyone, let alone you of all people. So you may not go except on student weekends."

He shrugged. It didn't matter much to him.

"I expect a full outline of what you intend to teach each of your classes this year by next Friday," she told him. "And if you can do it without Miss Granger's help, I would have more confidence in your abilities. If not, however, we can always let her teach the class." She was joking, but if Harry hadn't known her as well as he did, he would have thought her serious because her face showed nothing. "I regret to say that as a teacher, it isn't fair that you compete in the Quidditch games; not only do you need to be available for to help students whenever you can, you are a teacher and the games are for the students."

He had been expecting this. It felt odd to him, but he had no raging desire to play Quidditch.

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth to speak, but a knock echoed on the door. "Come in," she said imperiously.

The door opened and Professor Flitwick stood there. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Minerva, Mr. Potter," he squeaked, bowing, "but Peeves is tearing up the pillows in the Hufflepuff dormitory, I'm afraid, and he won't listen to me when I tell him to stop. I was wondering… if you're free…"

"For the love of Pete," she sighed. "Alright, I'm coming. Wait here a moment, Potter."

She stood up and followed Professor Flitwick out the door, and Harry was left alone.

He was a teacher. He had known before, but now it was starting to sink in. "I'm a teacher," he said aloud wonderingly.

"And you'll do a fine job at it, Harry," said a voice.

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. He knew that voice.

"Professor Dumbledore?" he stuttered, looking around wildly.

"Hello, Harry." This time Harry pinpointed the voice. It was coming from the portrait of Dumbledore on the wall, next to a snoozing Armando Dippet.

"Professor?" he said, hardly daring to believe that he might be able to talk to Dumbledore.

"I'm glad you're looking so well."

It was dawning on Harry just what this could mean. "But you're not dead," he said, amazed. "If you can still talk to me, still know me, can still tell me stuff, then only your body's gone, and you're not really dead."

"Alas, Harry, I am but a portrait. I am Professor Dumbledore's shadow, preserved in a painting. The Professor Dumbledore that you knew has gone on."

"But you're still here. Even if you are only a shadow, you must know everything he knows, right?"

"Ah, Harry… magic works in mysterious ways. I believe I told you once that you could never bring back the dead. Well, it can't fully preserve their shadows, either. Indeed, I still have my memories, my knowledge, my wisdom, but as a portrait, I am not according to the laws of magic able to share it with you. Only the very select things that I wished to tell you before I died am I able to tell you now."

"What things?" Harry asked eagerly. He scarcely dared to hope that maybe, somehow…

"Be patient, Harry. Patience is the key to getting anything you want."

Dumbledore surveyed him over his half-moon spectacles, and Harry had the same impression he had had every time Dumbledore had done so before, that he was looking right through his skull and into his thoughts.

"But Professor," Harry objected, "you're the most powerful wizard who's ever lived. Surely you can find a way to change that magic?"

Dumbledore chucked. "Ah, to be young again… I am not the most powerful wizard who ever lived, and even if I were, it doesn't change the fact that I'm dead. I can't do magic, Harry, nor anything physical. I can only talk and move between my frames, though I admit there are plenty of those to give me satisfaction…"

Harry couldn't believe it. He had spent the entire summer grieving Dumbledore's death, and here he was, talking to him once more. Or his shadow. Whatever.

"Professor," Harry began slowly, "what is it you were going to tell me before you… er, died? Will you tell me?"

Dumbledore scrutinized him for a minute, and then he nodded slowly. "Yes, Harry. I believe you are ready for at least one thing right now."

Harry could barely contain his eagerness. "What is it?"

"Patience," Dumbledore said, smiling slightly.

Harry waited several seconds, until he could contain it no longer. "Well?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "About a week before we went to retrieve the locket, I found something that might be of value to you."

Harry waited impatiently.

"I found another Horcrux."

Harry's jaw dropped. "You, er… what?"

"I found another Horcrux."

Harry was dumbfounded. When he finally found his tongue, he said hoarsely, "Which one?"

"It is a possession of Gryffindor's, and a very pretty one, at that."

"What is it? Where is it?"

Dumbledore chuckled again. "Patience, Harry, patience." He paused. "On the very top bookshelf on the far right, you will find a book called Secrets of Magic, by a good friend of mine. Minerva knew that these were my precious books, and as a tribute to my memory, left them there. Go pull it out."

Harry slid the ladder around to the far right bookshelf and climbed to the top. He scanned the titles and found Secrets of Magic. It was by Nicholas Flammel. He pulled the book out.

And when he did, the whole shelf slid aside to reveal a secret compartment.

"I know it's a bit melodramatic," said Dumbledore cheerily from below, "like something you might see in a Muggle movie, but a wizard would never think of it."

Inside, in a long box lined with red velvet, was an long staff made of oak, with ornate runes carved all down the sides. Harry picked it up reverently. "Gryffindor's staff," he said in awe, running his fingers along it. He could feel the magic in it, and it was like nothing he had ever felt before. He could feel Gryffindor's power surging through it, but there was a much darker, evil force inside it, and Harry was sure it was the piece of Voldemort's soul trapped inside.

"That's probably the safest place for you to leave it," Dumbledore told him. "At least until you're ready to destroy it."

Harry gently laid the staff down and slid the shelf back into place. Once back on the ground, he asked the portrait urgently, "How do you destroy them?"

Dumbledore sighed. "Alas, Harry, that was something I was never going to tell you unless I had to. Therefore I cannot do so now. I'm sorry."

Harry shrugged like it was no big deal, but it was. He had read about it in the book in the library, but he wanted to know if there was an easier way. Dumbledore had, after all, come back unscathed. Or maybe… "Propero Luminarium…" Harry said slowly. "Is that how you hurt your hand?"

Dumbledore's portrait shrugged, but his eyes twinkled, and Harry was sure that's how it had happened.

Harry sat back down, feeling the weight of all he had learned. He had another Horcrux. He could still talk to Dumbledore, or at least sort of, and he knew exactly how to destroy them.

He heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Dumbledore whispered, smiling, "We haven't talked," and he feigned sleep, like the rest of the portraits.

"Well, Potter," McGonagall said wearily as she reentered the room. "Peeves is taken care of, at least for the time being, and we can commence where we left off."

"Yes," Harry said, his mind still buzzing with all he had learned.

She handed him a sheet of paper. "This is your schedule. It tells you what classes you will be teaching and when. As you see, you have Friday afternoon off every week. I would ask you to do what you did in your fifth year, and hold an extra class for anyone who wants to come and teach them what you can. Another Dumbledore's Army, I suppose."

Harry looked up. The D.A. was what he had lived for back in their fifth year, but it would not be the same anymore, not now that he was a teacher. But he would do his best to resurrect it. "Of course."

"Any materials you need, just ask me and I will do my best to get them for you. And that's it. You're set."

Harry stood up. "Thank you, Professor." It was directed at McGonagall, but it was meant for Dumbledore. Indeed, the portrait behind her desk winked almost imperceptibly.

He was halfway out the door when McGonagall's voice stopped him. "And Harry," she said kindly, "Good luck."

"Thank you, Professor."

Ah, I love writing Dumbledore! Why did he have to die in the sixth book?

This was by far the hardest chapter to write. Why? Because until I got here, I never ever ever ever ever ever ever even dreamed of writing a Sorting Hat's poem. I completely forgot about it until I remembered that the Sorting hat sings a song before he sorts. I dunno how JKR does it. Maybe that's why Harry misses it so many times; she has trouble coming up with freakin' nine-stanza poems about Hogwarts. Actually, hers was nine (In GOF), and mine was fifteen. So there. Though hers are better.

And something I found pretty cool: I wrote the poem, and then, curious about the meaning of Hufflepuff (I remember it striking me as the funniest name when I first encountered it), I looked up Hogwarts houses on and it said—and this is what amazes me—that JK Rowling said that Gryffindor corresponds to the element of fire, Ravenclaw to air, Hufflepuff to earth, and Slytherin to water. This was after I had written the poem. I'm not kidding.

And one other thing; I'm not sure if Dumbledore's words (I shall never have left this school or whatever) were exactly what they said up there. I couldn't find COS. So if they're something different, please let me know, and I'll fix them.

And this was probably the longest author's note you've ever read.