Professor Potter

Behind his desk, Harry's head was tilted toward the ceiling as he sat, lost in thought. Lesson plans were spread around him but he had something else on his mind. Unconsciously, Harry's fingers brushed one of the drawers of his desk. Deep inside, protected by a rather nasty defensive enchantment, lay a chunk of Voldemort's soul.

He was still pondering the best way to destroy the ring. Gryffidnor's sword was difficult to get his hands on at the best of times, especially considering he didn't want Dumbledore's help until the ring was safely disposed of. This was the one Horcrux he had to handle on his own.

There were basilisk fangs in the castle with him, but frustratingly he was helpless to reach them. His Parseltongue abilities had only ever been borrowed from the Horcrux inside him. When the Horcrux was destroyed, he kissed those goodbye. 

Could he involve Neville? If the events of Neville's second year unfolded the same as Harry's, then the boy must carry the same dark gift. Frankly, though, it was still an option Harry was hesitant to use. He'd like to build a little bit more trust with his counterpart before dragging him into something as sinister as the Horcrux hunt.

His best option was most likely Fiendfyre. To use it safely he would have to leave Hogwarts property, but if he found a secluded enough spot, that could be worth it.

He was still weighing his options when there was a knock at his door.

"Come in," Harry said, shelving his thoughts.

The door swung open. Neville Longbottom stepped inside alone. Curiosity rose in Harry.

"Are you free right now, Professor?" Neville asked.

"I'm not so busy that I'd turn a student away," Harry said. "Go on, sit down."

Neville took a seat. He rubbed the back of one of his hands and did not, initially, meet Harry's eyes.

"You said before that I could come to you if I ever needed help," Neville said. "Is that offer still open?"

"Catch."

With a frightfully serious face, Harry grabbed a leftover cricket ball from his lesson and tossed it over the desk. Neville flinched, but his reactions weren't bad. He grabbed the ball out of the air. Holding it, he looked at Harry with confusion.

Harry was looking at the back of his hand. It was clean; no scars or red lines in the shape of letters. Neville rubbing his hand had been a nervous tick, not an attempt to hide Blood Quill marks.

Under the table, Harry released his wand.

"Professor?" Neville said, looking puzzled.

"Don't worry about it Mr. Longbottom," Harry said. "Just tell me, what did you need? Looking to return some of that sporting equipment I handed out after that insightful Educational Decree at breakfast?"

"No, Professor," Neville said. "But… Well, it is about Professor Umbridge in a way. But it's a bit more complicated…"

"I have time to listen if you have the time to talk."

Neville acknowledged this with a brief nod. Drawing a deep breath, he began.

"She doesn't teach," Neville said. "That's what she was sent here for. Everything else that she's doing is secondary, I think, because what Fudge really wants is weak students. He's got it in his head that Dumbledore wants his position and that he's training students to help him get it."

"That's an accurate assessment," Harry admitted. "Of course, it's completely ridiculous."

"I know—"

"Yes," Harry said, "if Dumbledore really wanted to be minister, he'd never need the help of children to take it from Fudge. He could probably do it by himself in a week. But of course," Harry added with a reassuring smile "that's the last thing he'd ever want."

"Right," Neville said. It seemed like he agreed, but wasn't used to people speaking so bluntly about the headmaster's capabilities. "The problem isn't that Dumbledore would really do that. It's that the ministry thinks he is. They're sabotaging every student's ability to defend themselves right before—"

Neville hesitated, unsure what word to use, so Harry finished it for him.

"War," Harry said. "They're sabotaging them before a war." He leaned over his desk. "The question, Mr. Longbottom, is what can we do about it? I get the feeling you have an idea…"

"It's not my idea," Neville admitted. "Ron and Hermione came up with it. I… I'm still not sure. The thing is, Professor, they want me to teach."

"Hmm." Harry stroked his chin. "I suppose if we got rid of Umbridge, got you a toad suit, and taught you to talk in a particularly horrible falsetto, the swap might not be noticed for a few months. You'd have to wear exclusively pink, though."

"What? No, I meant… You're joking, aren't you?"

"Possibly."

Neville sagged. "Right," he said. "Obviously. I've had trouble catching sarcasm recently. I think I'm just tired."

He rubbed the dark bags underneath his eyes. Harry frowned slightly. It was a weekend, leaving students free to kill time however they pleased. "What were your plans for the rest of the day?" he asked Neville.

Neville looked confused. "I was going to work on charms homework. And, well, try to decide if I could teach anything that's actually worth learning."

Harry actually drew his wand, although he kept it beneath the table. With a short flourish, he silently transfigured one of his bookshelves into a comfy cot. The silent bit of magic was completely missed by Neville with the change occurring behind his back.

"Why don't we put a pause on this conversation?" Harry asked.

Neville looked disappointed. "Oh. Of course, I'm sure you've got work to get to."

Neville stood up. He must've felt like he was being dismissed, given the way that he hurried toward the door. But when he turned around and saw the cot, complete with pillows and a blanket, he stopped. "Was that always there?"

Harry's lips twitched. "Don't tell me you didn't see it on your way in? It's very comfortable. Whenever my work gets to be too much, I head over and curl up for a minute. I can't recommend it enough. In fact, why don't you give it a try?"

"I don't know… I mean, I'm fine, Professor."

"I'll give Gryffindor two points if you try it out for thirty seconds," Harry said. "I picked the mattress personally, see, and I want to show it off."

Neville looked resigned for a moment, then approached and climbed onto the bed. Harry could see him counting up to thirty seconds inside his head. Somewhere around twenty-five, his eyes drifted closed. Before long, soft snores were passing from his lips.

Harry smiled, picked up a pen, and turned to the papers on his desk.

Two hours later, Neville opened his eyes again. He smacked his lips sleepily and rubbed his face. A moment later, he sat bolt upright.

"Sorry Professor!"

"For what?" Harry scribbled a last mark and shifted one paper into the growing pile beside him. "If anything, you've given my mattress the highest compliment possible."

"But I didn't mean to—" Neville sighed. "Thank you. I didn't mean to drift off, but I haven't slept so well in ages."

Harry looked up, smiling, and nodded.

He knew it would be that way. Right now Neville was being plagued through the Horcrux in his head. Every night he was forced to watch the Dark Lord's crimes from the perpetrator's eyes. Harry was sure he'd tried to explain as much to Hermione and Ron, and even Albus. But Harry was the only one who understood. He'd been there. And one of the tricks Harry picked up back then was that the Dark Lord was nocturnal.

He thrived once the sun went down. Harry was never sure if it was a fear tactic born from the war and raiding homes when people were at their most vulnerable, or if it was something else— a propensity for the dark, or even a desire to hide the details of his new appearance. He just knew that during the day, his sleep hadn't been plagued by nearly as many visions of Voldemort.

"Don't be afraid of a good nap," Harry counseled Neville. "You might be surprised by how much they help you rest. Now, I think we've put off our initial conversation long enough." He pushed aside what he'd been working on, returning his full attention to Neville. "You're going to teach?"

Neville returned to Harry's desk. He was trying very hard to look serious, but his bed-head wasn't helping.

"Can I?" Neville asked. "That's the question I keep asking myself over and over. And I just… I don't know."

"Of course you can teach."

"But I'm only a student!"

Harry hummed. "I'll put it this way. Are you any good at Herbology?"

"Fairly," Neville said evasively. It wasn't a very appropriate strength for a chosen-one, but Harry knew Neville Longbottom, and he knew no matter how Neville was raised he was bound to end up with green thumbs. "What are you getting at, professor?"

"I'm glad you're good at it, because I'm complete rubbish," Harry said. "It was never my forte. I didn't have the patience for it, and I always had a rough time remembering so many different plants. You've got Bubotuber and Bloodroot and Beladonia—"

"Belladonna," Neville corrected reflexively.

"Aha!" Harry snapped his fingers. "You taught me something!"

Realization dawned in Neville's eyes.

"It was just a plant name," he said. "It's not like it was anything complicated."

"That's not the point, though. Even though you're a student, you know more about Herbology than I do. And I'm a professor! Now, think of all the things you've seen and experienced as a student. Surely you've picked up a few skills along the way that would help your classmates."

Neville's first reaction was to deny it. Slowly, he closed his mouth without uttering a word. Harry could see him thinking it over.

"Gran got me everything money can buy when I was growing up," Neville said. "Old coworkers of my parents taught me defensive magic. She brought in charms instructors and even had me practice potions. I think she was training me to be an Auror from the start. So… you might be right, Professor Potter. I probably do know more than the others. But how do I actually teach them?"

"Oh, that's the easy part!" Harry said. "Unfortunately, it's also the hardest part. You just try, and try again, and keep doing your best. Don't worry when you fall on your face. Just get up and learn what you did wrong!"

Neville gulped. "When?"

"My door's always open," Harry said, as if he hadn't heard Neville's question. "If you want any kind tips or advice, I'll always make time. But frankly, I know you'd do great even without my help."

Neville looked torn between embarrassment and pride, the dueling emotions making him puff out his chest. Something else entered his eyes, however: doubt.

"How can you know that?" he asked. "We've only met a couple of times. If you've been talking to Gran too much, you should know, she overestimates me. I've never done anything completely on my own. Not in my first year, my second, third, or even the fourth one."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Harry observed. "Doesn't that just mean you have good friends? You said these lessons were Hermione and Ron's idea in the first place. They'll be with you every step of the way. So if you think teaching will make a difference, you've really got nothing to lose."

Gradually, Neville nodded.

"Okay," he said. "Alright. I'll give it a try."

After offering a final thank you, Neville left the office… Only, when he opened the door, someone was right on the other side in green Slytherin robes. Neville jumped back, his hand grasping for his wand—

"Relax, golden boy," Blaise Zabini said. "A very intricate privacy spell was up until just moments ago. Very curious, if you ask me… but I heard nothing."

"Why are you here?" Neville asked.

If his experience was like Harry's, then Blaise should be something of an unknown to him. A Slytherin in their year who was vaguely in Draco's orbit, but kept his distance at the same time. Blaise smirked, which seemed to be the natural position of his lips (an upgrade on Draco Malfoy's resting-sneer).

"I'm meeting with my professor about his class," Blaise said. "The same thing you were doing. Right?"

"Right," Neville agreed. He let go of his wand, although it was far too late now for the reaction to have gone unnoticed. "Bye, Professor."

Blaise stepped aside to let him pass. He watched Neville retreating, then showed himself into the room. Harry had at least talked to Neville, so it wasn't like seeing him drop in was too much of a surprise. But Blaise barely even talked in class.

Still, he smiled at his student. "What can I help you with, Mr. Zabini?"

Blaise winced.

"Don't call me that. Please. It makes me feel like I'm on my deathbed."

Harry was stumped for a moment, until he recalled what he'd heard about Blaise's home life. Just like Anastasia said, Sofia Zabini went through husbands the way wealthy Muggles went through cars. The Zabini name was as old as any in the wizarding world, leading the purebloods she married to take her name instead of keeping theirs, hoping they would be the one to last as the newest Zabini patriarch. So far, all seven who tried met mysterious early demises.

"Blaise, then," Harry said, clearing his throat. "You said you had a question about my class…?"

When Blaise sat, he crossed his legs and arms, looking almost too relaxed.

"Have you ever had a dream, professor?" Blaise asked.

Briefly, Harry considered the idea that the universe was getting revenge on him for the herbology non-sequitur he dropped on Neville. He certainly felt as confused as the other boy had looked.

"Not exactly," Harry admitted. "Rather, I'd say people made up their mind on who I was supposed to be, and I just went along with it."

"It sounds like there's an interesting tale in there," Blaise observed.

"There is." Harry said, making no move to share it. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I've got one," Blaise said. "A dream. I'll be kind and let you know in advance. I am going to write the best story wizarding kind— no, that the world has ever seen. My name will go down in history books, and my Chocolate Frog card will be the second most popular one, behind only Merlin."

"That's… ambitious…" Harry said, almost lost for words.

Blaise gave him a look that simply said, Obviously.

"That said, stories do not come about easily," Blaise admitted. "It will take practice to reach my masterpiece, and I'm always looking for sources to learn from. So consider my disappointment when information on Muggle storytelling was limited to a couple of throwaway pages in the sixteenth chapter of our textbook."

"You've read that far already?"

"I read the entire thing. I take my research seriously," Blaise said. "Unfortunately, I found it lacking. So here I am."

"What do you need?"

Blaise understood it as an open offer from Harry to get him whatever he needed within reason. His smirk deepened.

"You were correct," Blaise said. "It's clear that wizarding books on Muggles are shallow and limited. I'd like a book on Muggle storytelling written by Muggles. From that, I can get a grasp of what stories I should read first. Your help retrieving primary texts would be appreciated, but is not strictly necessary. I can purchase them myself if given minimal instruction on how to blend into the non-magical world."

"Why not both? I can get you certain books, but the skills to buy things yourself will set you up for the future." Harry peered at Blaise, lingering on his Slytherin robes. "But are you really alright with learning from Muggles?"

"I want access to their stories," Blaise scoffed. "What does a lack of magic matter for that?"

"It doesn't sting your pride?"

"Of course not," Blaise said. "I'll be a better writer than all of them by the time I'm done, so what does it matter how I get there?"

His arrogance was definitely beyond simple confidence, but Harry couldn't find it in himself to dislike the boy. There was something charming about his absolute faith in himself and the devotion he held toward his goals.

Harry summoned a book from the far side of the room, catching it by the spine as it zoomed over. He planted it on the table between them.

"This will get you started," he told Blaise. "It references myths and ancient stories. I'll get you something for more modern options by Monday, just come by and pick it up. As for visiting the Muggle world, don't worry. I plan to cover that in detail in class."

"Much appreciated," Blaise said, accepting the book. He turned it over in his hands, enjoying what he was seeing. "Oh, yes. This will be most helpful."

Before he stood up, Harry stopped him for one more question. "Where does Daphne fit into all of this?"

"She has a dream of her own," Blaise said. "It's less grand than mine, but I find that we work together well. When I create my stories, she is going to help bring them to life." He paused. "Out of curiosity, Professor, what made you think she was involved?"

"She took my pen."

"Ah," Blaise's eyes shone. "So that's where she got it."

He tucked the book he'd been given under his arm, rose to his feet, and bowed his head to Harry.

"This has been most helpful, but I have a frightening amount of reading to get done, so it would be best to end it here. Remind me to give you an autograph soon. In the future, it will be worth a small fortune. And if you're still curious about Daphne, I can only recommend asking her directly.

"You know what?" Harry murmured when Blaise had straightened and left. "I might just do that."