Chapter 7

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A brief interlude

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Later

"I've been thinking of ways that we can contact each other," Xander said as he walked back and forth across the Room of Requirement. History, or rather the Harry Potter books were repeating themselves, only earlier this time around. Fortunately, it gave him a better opportunity to train people, to make them believe.

He stopped, looked at the twins and then at Hermione.

"I've faced off against Voldemort at least once now: in the Chamber of Secrets, he tried to use Salazar's serpent against me, but I had help, Ginny fought him mentally."

The red head blushed…

"And Gilderoy helped me fight the snake," he said, looking over at the blond man, who bowed his head. "Voldemort is not dead," Xander went on, "he is alive and he will be back. I can't tell you how I know what I know, only that I know it."

They all looked at him with confusion. Xander smiled. "When an agent comes to you and says, 'the sunshine is shining', you will answer them 'but the ice is slippery'. They will know who you are and that you work for me."

The room broke out into whispers. Fred stepped forward and beamed. "And who is Harry Potter?" he asked.

"Why dear brother," George followed with an equal grin; both twins held open boxes, "he's the Shadow."

Fred started handing out emerald rings and started explaining, "Hermione came up with a most ingenious idea to make contact with us discreetly in case any of us are compromised at any given moment."

"Quite true, brother of mine," George said, and everyone turned to the blushing bushy haired witch, who started explaining about the rings: how they worked and what would happen.

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Professor Severus Snape was not in a good mood, not one little bit. For a start, he did not want to be exactly where he was, the Headmaster's office, and secondly he had potions brewing that would ruin if he stayed too long.

He was beyond mad; he was fuming.

And the trouble was, the Headmaster, Professor Albus Dumbledore, knew it. "These are false accusations," Snape said immediately.

"Are they?" Dumbledore replied. Albus examined Snape from over his half-moon spectacles. Snape looked away, "I have a dozen eye-witness reports from the class."

Snape sighed. "He is mediocre at best," he continued with a snarl. "Arrogant as his father, a determined rule-breaker, delighted to find himself famous, attention-seeking and impertinent -"

"You see what you expect to see, Severus," said Dumbledore as he looked back down at the paperwork on his desk. "Other teachers report that the boy is modest, likable, and reasonably talented; in fact, I believe Professor McGonagall reported that he was almost on par with Miss Granger. Personally, I find him an engaging child."

Snape winced as Hermione's name was mentioned.

Dumbledore turned a page, and said, without looking up, "Keep an eye on Quirrell, won't you?"

"Quirrell the snivelling stuttering pile of…"

"Severus," Albus said in a threatening tone.

"Why do you keep him? He is b…b…b…barely," Severus said in a mocking tone, "able to speak without stuttering, and breaks practically everything that he touches. Why, my students claim he has not taught a decent class since he returned."

Albus lifted his eyes and stared intently at Snape; he sighed and sat back in his chair. Fawkes hooted softly as though recognising his mood.

"Because it is… necessary," Albus said enigmatically, "I have need of him for a moment." A sudden thought struck Albus. "Mr Potter approached me with an unusual request the other day."

Severus groaned.

"You have been asking me for sometime whether or not you can teach the Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons."

Severus looked up suddenly and hopefully.

"Yes…" Snape whispered; he had waited a long time to get the opportunity to teach it, to teach what he knew.

"Mr Potter wishes to create a club for the Defence Against the Dark Arts, lessons set during lunch times and in the evenings. He believes it will prove who are willing to learn and who are not; those who are willing will get a first hand practical course in the art of defence."

"And you want me to teach the lessons?"

"Yes, but not taking over the actual lesson; you will be there to supervise and instruct." Albus paused and peered over his half-moon spectacles with an amused look. "And, Severus, please remember we wish to encourage students to join this lesson, not frighten them off."

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"I'd like to speak to the Headmaster please…"

Ron and Hermione gave each other strange looks; after a moment, the Gargoyle spoke and let them pass. It then jumped, as though suddenly alive, out of place and let them move towards the stairs.

Hermione squeaked when it jumped, and Ron had backed away slightly.

"Thanks," Xander said to the statue.

"Don't mention it…"

Hermione was perplexed. "How did you know it would do that?"

"I asked Professor McGonagall; firstly whether or not I could create the club and secondly who I should ask to get it in place."

They entered the office. Xander noticed at once the hundreds of paintings that littered the walls: each had different Headmasters and Headmistresses on it. All of them were watching the trio rather intently.

Dumbledore's office was a large and beautiful circular room, on one side of the room stood a large claw-footed desk, the Sorting Hat sitting on a shelf behind it.

Albus Dumbledore sat behind the desk; his long white hair trailed down his back just as surely as his long white beard trailed down his front. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles, which seemed to be peering rather intently at Xander's own green eyes.

The man who defeated Grindelwald in 1945. The only man who Riddle truly feared. The last remaining wielder of the Deathstick, also known as the Elder Wand. Xander soaked it all up; it was all there in his mind, all the information he would need to break Riddle. Hermione and Ron both looked between the two - master and student - as they stared intently at each other. It was almost as if they were trying to break into each other's minds, Harry's face was as passive as Professor Dumbledore's was.

Suddenly the magic was broken, Dumbledore smiled and his eyes twinkled. "Good afternoon, Mr Potter," he said before turning to the other two, "Ms Granger and Mr Weasley."

Xander was so very close to quoting Star Wars…

'Your arrogance is your weakness.'

'And yours is your faith in your friends…'

Hermione watched as the suddenly impassive face sparkled with emotion, and Harry's green eyes lit up from the harsh coldness that was there. A smile worked its way, effortlessly, across his face.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Xander looked at Hermione; the young bushy haired witch's eyes widened in surprise. He waved his hand at her. She breathed in and spoke rapidly. "We're learning nothing in Professor Quirrell's class; we would like to create a Defence Against the Dark Arts club."

Albus raised his eyebrows. "Why, may I ask?"

"Because he's teaching us nothing…"

"Hermione's right, I haven't learned anything useful."

"Other than cleaning up pixy crap," Xander said in agreement with Ron.

Albus chuckled and nodded. "Very well. Do you have any idea of where you would like to hold the lessons?"

Xander nodded slowly, "You could say that."

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Snape looked out at the sea of eager faces; upon hearing that Harry Potter and Professor Snape would be teaching people Defence Against The Dark Arts, many had come. In total, the room had to, on its first meeting, expand to fit up to fifty students, which, if Xander had read the book right, was triple the amount as in book five.

Snape had been pacing backwards and forwards while the Granger child took their names on a piece of parchment. She was, if nothing else, efficient. Snape stopped and swept his gaze over the classroom.

Once again, when Severus Snape talked, he talked in barely a whisper. And yet, it seemed to travel over the whole class; everyone remained silent, and no one dared move as his voice captivated them.

"The Dark Arts," said Snape, "are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible.

"Your defences," said Snape, a little louder, "must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the Arts you seek to undo…"