Professor Potter

Privately, Harry had always privately thought of teaching to be somewhat, well, easy work. You deliver lessons to a couple of classes each day, assign them homework, and settle in to do whatever you want with the rest of the day. Obviously that was oversimplifying it, but you even got Holidays off. It certainly seemed cushier than being an Auror, getting called into the office at unholy hours to chase down some criminal or another, always hiding out in a bog or snowfield or somesuch.

It took him exactly one hour of sitting behind this desk to realize how ignorant he had been. After all, it was currently the middle of Summer, and yet his desk was stacked high with piles of work. Teaching, he was quickly recognizing, was only a small part of what went into being a teacher.

He probably should've realized that before. But he'd taken quite a lot of pains to separate his image after the war from Dumbledore's, and one of those was keeping far away from Hogwarts in any capacity. As much as he loved the school, he figured that the moment he took a job there he'd end up fast-tracked up to the Headmaster's office. Then he'd be stuck.

That wasn't the life he wanted for himself. And, after a while, he'd stepped even further away from the Wizarding World…

That was all thought from another time, though. At the moment, his problems were much smaller and more immediate, though no less formidable.

How exactly did one make a lesson plan?

What did it consist of? How would he know that what he came up with was long enough to fill a whole class period? What if it was too long? He hadn't even taken Muggle Studies when he was a student, for Merlin's sake! Now he was expected to teach it?

"Ahem."

Harry's head jerked up so fast that the fringe of his hair took flight, slowly drifting back down across the tops of his glasses. In the doorway, Minerva McGonagall stood with her usual stiff posture, looking just as she had during his school days. 

"Hello there," Harry greeted. "Did you need something…"

"Minerva," Professor McGonagall introduced herself to his silent question. "Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts as well as the Transfiguration Professor, and the head of Gryffindor House."

"A pleasure to meet you, Professor McGonagall," Harry said.

Her forehead creased a little. "Just Minerva is fine."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to use titles," Harry said bashfully. "I'm still adjusting to the fact that I'm teaching at all, see, and I'm a bit worried I'll slip up if I don't practice. Please, just call me Professor Potter."

It certainly wasn't the most normal of requests, but Harry thought it just about made sense, and it was better than walking around introducing himself with the same name as the Boy Who Lived. He also considered coming up with an alias, but that sounded confusing in the long run. It wasn't easy training yourself into responding to a different name, not to mention someone was bound to notice how many of the Potter features were on his face.

"Very well, Professor Potter," said McGonagall, though he wasn't spared a somewhat strange look.

"Was there something you needed?" he prompted with a tired smile.

"There was in fact. A staff meeting has been called. I'm here to fetch you."

"I don't think Dumbledore mentioned that earlier…" Harry admitted, rising from his desk and shrugging on his coat.

"Dumbledore did not call it," said McGonagall, turning on her heels.

A sinking feeling hit Harry's stomach as he followed her. McGonagall was stiff at the most informal of times, but after knowing her for so many years, Harry had gotten quite good at reading her moods. There was only one year he recalled seeing her this way— and it lined up perfectly with the era he landed in.

Someone other than the headmaster was ordering the staff around. Voldemort was back, but his presence was being denied. The Ministry was suppressing the truth.

Umbridge was here.

"Have you taught before?"

Harry blinked, smiling awkwardly as McGonagall's question brought him back to the moment.

"Not exactly," he admitted.

McGonagall's lips pursed themselves to an even tighter degree.

"I didn't plan on applying here, to be honest. But Dumbledore seemed so eager when he talked to me, I couldn't help but become interested!"

"He has that effect."

McGonagall's voice betrayed nothing of what she thought of that. Harry nearly winced. Her mood was even worse than he thought. 

"How many are on the staff?" Harry changed the subject.

"Eighteen total, including the two of us," McGonagall said. "That number, of course, includes non-teaching positions, such as our Caretaker Argus Filch and our Librarian, Madam Pince. Though they do not directly instruct students, I will brook no condescension toward them. They are members of the staff as much as we ourselves are."

"Ma'am, I'm here to teach Muggle Studies," Harry told her dryly. "Most people are likely to dump me in with them before considering me proper staff. You'll have nothing to worry about on my front"

Just for a second, McGonagall's pursed lips flickered up toward something approaching a smile.

"Wit can be a perfectly good thing for keeping this castle from becoming dreary," she said. "However, you would be better off keeping it to yourself for the next hour or so."

Before Harry could frown at what was clearly a warning, they had stopped in front of a large oak door not far from where the Headmaster's office was located. It wasn't a part of the castle Harry had specifically been to. When the door opened, the room on the other side was almost disappointingly ordinary.

It looked just like a standard classroom, only instead of desks for students, it had been filled by a rectangular table long enough to accommodate twenty different seats. A cozy recliner had been placed at the head of the table, Albus Dumbledore already sprawled in it in resplendent robes. He offered Harry and McGonagall a cheerful wave.

McGonagall walked to a simple seat directly on Dumbledore's right. Flitwick, Sprout, and Snape sat similarly close to him, as did much of the senior staff. Waiting a moment and finding that there didn't seem to be a formal seating policy, Harry picked a random empty chair far from Dumbledore. If the Heads of House were closest to the Headmaster, he couldn't only assume that a fresh professor with a minor class should be somewhere at the opposite end.

As the seats filled, it became obvious that every single one served a purpose. McGonagall had been spot on about there being eighteen total staff members— the remaining two seats went to Hagrid, who had to squish two together to keep from crushing whatever he sat on, and Argus Filch. The caretaker pulled aside two seats when he entered, carefully doctoring one with three different cushions and even spraying it down with some kind of perfume. Then he sat in the chair he did nothing to, while Mrs Norris hopped onto her throne and curled into a ball.

The last staff member to enter was the one Harry was most concerned about. As each seat filled, he slowly managed to convince himself, despite his better judgement, that perhaps he had been wrong. Maybe this wasn't the year he thought it was. Maybe McGonagall's warning hadn't meant what he thought it did. Then a pink toad strutted through the door.

The last open seat was right next to Sprout and Snape, only a couple of spaces away from Dumbledore. Provided Harry wasn't completely imagining the hierarchy going on at the table, it was a perfectly prominent seat, better than what many long-time staff members had taken.

Smiling that sickly sweet smile he could never forget, Dolores Umbridge scanned the table before picking up her chair.

She carried it, bumping Hagrid, Professor Burbage, and Ms. Pince in the backs in the process. Umbridge carried the seat all the way around the table, setting it down in the empty gap directly opposite Dumbledore.

She sat and crossed her legs, steepling her fingers in her lap. "We'll begin now."

Any hint of amusement was gone from McGonagall's face. Sprout actually gasped quietly. Most faces were looking at Umbridge in shock, while Hagrid looked tempted to shout at her. But Dumbledore merely said, "Quite right!"

It occurred to Harry that what he was sitting in on was the first time the staff met Umbridge. Clearly, some of them knew what to expect, based on McGonagall's warning and the fact that Hagrid held back. But others, like Professor Vector sitting to his left and Professor Burbage across the table, seemed to be unable to shut their gaping mouths.

"My name is Dolores Umbridge," Umbridge introduced herself. "I will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year. As the Ministry's representative at this school, rectifying an embarrassing list of abdications and… less than stellar choices for teachers, I aim to bring stability, a bit of long-missing reasonableness, and a strong sense of discipline— not just for the students. The staff must also be up to task. Students must be taught, rules upheld, and troublemakers punished."

"Punished how?" asked Filch.

Umbridge tilted her toad-like face, looking at him. "Severely and immediately," she said with a pleasant lilt. "Until they are too frightened of bad behavior to ever act out again."

Filch released an ugly little giggle, shrinking back in his seat to ponder exactly what that would look like. 

"Is that why you called this meeting?" McGonagall asked tersely.

"Of course," said Umbridge. "A proper introduction is tradition— and, while we're on the topic of tradition, I should say that a great many of those will be respected and, indeed, reinstituted this year under my personal watch. A classroom is a place for note taking and proper theory. Too much magic with too little teaching is how we end up with trouble makers like we have now."

"What is your point with this?" Flitwick asked, doing a great deal to look serious as he leaned over the table, even though his chin only narrowly cleared the lip.

"I'm glad you asked," Umbridge said. "Behold!"

She reached into what had to a (very expensively) charmed hot-pink handbag, drawing out stack after stack of papers. 

"Pass those around," she said, pushing them at the professors on either side of her.

"What are they?" Professor Vector asked dubiously as she took one.

"Lesson plans," Umbridge said smugly.

There was an eruption of voices then so sudden that they caught Harry completely off-guard. He looked around, slightly befuddled, as teachers the whole table over clamored while looking angry.

"QUIET!" Umbridge roared.

It was such a complete change from her usual demeanor that the clamor quieted in an instant. Umbridge's face went right back to her sickly sweet smile.

"To be boisterous is a sign of low class," she said pointedly. "As I would've said, if you had asked in a civilized manner, it has come to the Ministry's attention that Hogwarts' staff has been struggling to instill proper theoreticals into their wards. We have taken the liberty of designing step-by-step guides that if followed, would rectify these shortcomings… simple enough for anyone to follow, of course."

Harry was almost excited when his landed in front of him. Lesson plans were one of the things that had been causing him the largest headache today. But it took only a few paragraphs of cursory reading to show that he wouldn't be getting much out of this.

Each class came with its own simple theme. One was, "Muggle Wars: the many ways they savage themselves without magic." Another read, "Mud, studs, and Vulgarity: an introduction to Muggle Sports." The descriptions beneath each quickly devolved into pointing out how savage, crude, and unadvanced Muggles were, but that wasn't the main thing that caught Harry's attention.

Roughly a third of all classes, at least one a week if he taught a whole year this way, returned to a different aspect of witch trials. Above even the condescension and insults toward Muggles, this lesson plan seemed designed to instill a sense of fear. Its whole goal was to create a populace that was afraid.

Looking up, Harry saw other teachers frowning as they read what was in front of them. Even Snape looked disgusted. 

"If you have any questions," Umbridge said, "feel free to ask."

"I've got one," Harry said, raising his hand.

He felt everyone's eyes fall onto him and lowered his hand slightly.

"You don't have to do that in a staff meeting, Professor Potter," McGonagall reminded him. "We're all coworkers here."

"Right." Harry blushed and lowered his hand beneath the table. "Of course."

Professor Vector, the Arithmancy Professor only slightly older than his current age, giggled and looked away. Hagrid gave him an encouraging smile.

But Umbridge looked at his ratty Muggle coat, took in his unkempt hair and ruffled shirt, and ratcheted her sickly-sweet smile up a notch.

"And you are?" she asked.

"Professor Potter, Miss," he said. "Muggle Studies."

"Oh! Muggle Studies!" Her voice hit its shrillest high note yet. 

"He is Professor Burbage's replacement, while she is away this year on maternity leave," Dumbledore said, giving an introduction for most at the table. Umbridge was barely listening.

"Have you looked over the proposed plan?" Umbridge asked eagerly. "We at the Ministry put extra work into yours. We're most proud of the results."

Harry glanced down at the slop in front of him. "Ah. I can see that. But actually, I was the one trying to ask a question—"

"Will you be adopting it?" Umbridge asked, cutting him off.

"Of course not," Harry said. "Now—"

"Wonderful. I'm very glad you…" Umbridge blinked owlishly, only belatedly processing what he had said. Her saccharine smile froze in place. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"That I wasn't going to teach this rubbish," Harry said. "I mean, after reading it over, I just have to ask. Have you ever even talked to a Muggle before?"

"Do I look like someone who would have?" Umbridge asked.

"Not really. I mean, you look like you might've gotten your coat off one that was pecked to death by a flock of flamingos, but…"

Professor Vector snorted loudly to his left, doubling forward and doing an admirable (if unconvincing) job of disguising her laughter.

"I did nothing of the sort," said Umbridge hotly. "You, however… in that tacky coat… with those horrific glasses—"

"Let's not devolve into name calling now," Dumbledore said patiently with a hint of a smile.

Umbridge was too hot in the head to notice or stop now.

"You look like you could practically be a Muggle!"

She slammed her palm down on the table, her portly cheeks vibrating under the raw weight of her fury. Harry looked back, his eyes wide.

"You mean it?" he asked innocently. "You really, really mean it? Thank you!"

Professor Vector's snorting problem grew even more suspicious. Umbridge stared at Harry. She searched, and searched, and searched again for any hint of sarcasm, turning up none. Hardly able to even process the idea of a wizard pleased about being compared to a Muggle, Umbridge simply turned away in disgust.

"Though lesson plans are not mandatory, they are heavily encouraged!" she said. "For the sake of a smooth school year, and the futures of your students, I hope you will think twice before disregarding them."

She managed to shoot Harry another dirty look here before moving on, diving into new Ministry standards on acceptable and banned texts. Professor Vector leaned over to Harry.

"That was brilliant," she whispered. "You're even nuttier than Charity."

Her robes were redder than a Gryffindor's. Scared off by her dry subject and reputation for assigning fierce homework, Harry never really saw much of her as a student, which might explain why he could easily see her as a woman now. Professor Vector was likely forty, with brown hair, a pretty face, and particularly piercing blue eyes.

"Charity?" Harry whispered back.

"Burbage. The witch you're taking over for this year. She loves her subject, but not even she would manage to get mistaken for a Muggle."

"Well, it's just that I lived with them for a while…" Harry said.

Professor Vector looked curious, but sat back in her seat and ended their conversation there. Umbridge had been looking over a tad pointedly and clearing her throat, so it was probably better not to step on her toes again. There was a reason even Dumbledore was letting her act this way. Right now, she had the entire Ministry at her back, and Harry couldn't be certain how many times the 'bumbling Muggle Studies Professor' act would work.

In a way, this position was actually perfect for him, because his act was older than the position he now occupied. He wasn't sure when it started exactly. He might've taken inspiration from Dumbledore, or he might've just grown into something a bit like the grandfatherly act Albus favored, but somewhere along the way Harry just found life easier if he presented himself as a bit of a fool. If you were good at looking wide-eyed and acting somewhat goofy, people were prone to letting their guards down. Umbridge had been on high alert, and now she'd moved on from him like nothing ever happened. There was nothing better for being underestimated.

The meeting dragged on. McGonagall had been unerringly accurate when she told him to mind his behavior for the next hour, as that was exactly how long Umbridge managed to prattle on for. In classic bureaucratic fashion, when she wasn't saying something utterly cruel, she was boring you silly. The scary parts were when she was doing both at the same time.

By the time they were finally released, most of the staff all but fled the room. Many had been taken away from their important work, wasting a large portion of the day. So had Harry… but it wasn't like he'd actually been making progress. Feeling too tired to even attempt diving back into lesson plans, his legs carried him out the front gates, down the path to Hogsmeade.

The evening was cloudy and warm. He enjoyed the entire walk to the village. Mostly because it was free of Umbridge's voice. Like a responsible British adult, he was making the decision to go for drinks.

Hey, it worked out well for him last time! It got him a job. So he felt secure in his decision as he strolled into Hogsmeade and approached the Three Broomsticks.

Only, when he stopped in front of the exterior, the windows were dim and the inside quiet. He couldn't recall the Three Broomsticks ever closing so early, but it clearly was now. Maybe Rosmerta was shaken by what happened the day before?

With a heavy heart, he had turned to head to Aberforth's much dirtier Hog's Head when the door to the Three Broomsticks flew open.

Someone grabbed him and pulled him inside. Harry's hand was on his wand before he was even through the door, but he released it just as quickly, recognizing the delicate fingers holding his wrist from the night before.

"I had a feeling you'd be back," Rosmerta said.

"So you closed the whole bar?" Harry asked, turning around. "I'm hurt."

He was glad he got the quip out before turning, because otherwise he might've ended up tongue-tied and made a fool of himself.

The bar wasn't completely dark inside. Candles had been set up around one table right in the middle of the room, with a full dinner laid across it. The flickering firelight illuminated Rosmerta, smirking at him in a cream-color dress even lower-cut than her usual fare.

"That's right," she said, hitting the door behind him with a locking charm. "Tonight, it's reserved for two."

Harry gulped as she led him to the table. The dinner she prepared looked fantastic, and as he sat down, he couldn't shake the most peculiar suspicion…

…that desert was sitting across from him.