Facing Backwards

When Harry wandered down to the Great Hall for breakfast the next morning, it was hard to tell whether the sick twisting of his stomach was the result of dread or too much firewhiskey the night before. He seated himself once again between the Longbottoms and the Weasleys and tried unsuccessfully to eat a bowl of oatmeal that Ron had placed before him.

"I feel like I used to before a Quidditch match," he said. "It seems as if Oliver Wood should be walking up to me any minute, shaking like a leaf, and telling me not to worry."

Ron just smiled and patted him on the shoulder, then looked up at the ceiling. "No Flying today," he said, watching the spring rain pouring down over their heads.

A lanky, black-clad wizard stepped behind Ron, walking towards his seat on the other side of the Head Table. "Potter," he said.

"Theodore," muttered Harry, as the potions master walked to his seat. Harry had hardly seen Nott since they were at school together, when he and Blaise Zabini had been the first Slytherins to join the DA. From Sidi, Harry knew that he was an incredibly demanding teacher, though (unlike the current headmaster, Harry thought) fair. Yet seeing him still filled Harry with the same ambiguous disquiet that had plagued him during that last year at Hogwarts--learning to accept these two apparent enemies as allies, if not friends. Zabini had been easier--he had never been one of Malfoy's hangers-on, had never gone out of his way to taunt or sneer at Harry or his friends. Learning to trust Theodore Nott--who had made a occasional fourth with Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle, who had looked so much like the young Severus Snape that Harry had glimpsed in Professor Dumbledore's Pensieve--had been one of the most difficult things Harry had ever done. Yet Nott had earned that trust and repaid it--it had been he, not Harry, who had saved Hermione's life in the second, final battle in the Death Room. If not for Nott, there would be no Sidi, no Minnie, no Albie. Amazing what difference a small choice--to trust or not to trust--can make.

Ron considered his friend as he devoured his second helping of bangers. "No reason to be nervous. We've all been there and we've all survived." He gestured up and down the table with a sausage on his fork.

Harry shook his head. "Yeah, but you were all fully qualified wizards. You know what a disaster I am with a wand--you saw it last night," he whispered.

"Listen, mate," Ron said, very earnestly, "it's not what you can do, it's what you know. And you know more about fighting the Dark Arts than any wizard I've ever known, except maybe Dumbledore, Lupin and old Moody."

"Wish they were here. They could teach the bloody class." Harry was searching the Griffyindor table for Siria. He spotted her black mane once again halfway back, once again seated beside the bright red Weasley head of Harry's godson and namesake.

"You'll be brilliant," Ron said. "Listen, my classes are washed out today. You mind if I audited your NEWT-level lot?"

Harry laughed. "Another one? What, don't you Weasleys trust me? Or do you all want to watch me crash and b... Ouch!"

Once again, Ginny had aimed a sharp kick at his shin--this time his left. "Keep it up, Potter, and I'll aim higher next time."

"And I'm sure Hermione would approve, seeing that she thinks three kids is enough." Harry rubbed his leg. "Merlin's beard, Ginny, nice way to lend moral support!"

She smiled pertly. "You're welcome." Her husband, who had been chatting with Professor Flitwick, laughed heartily.

Sidi was waving to Harry from the doorway. "See you at the end of the day, Professor Daddy!"

Harry waved back, and felt the familiar climb of his stomach into his throat. Almost match time.

"Come on, Ron," he sighed. "If you want to watch this fiasco, I need to get there in time to set something up."

* * *

Harry was sitting on the front of the desk when the students began to trickle in. From the notes that Remus had left, he knew that there were twenty-eight of them, half sixth-years and half seventh-years, evenly split among the four houses. This surprised Harry. In his day, Slytherins mostly hadn't bothered with advanced Defense, any more than Hermione or Harry would have needed to take NEWT-level Muggle Studies. So many of them in those days came from houses where Dark Magic was being practiced regularly that they already had a good working knowledge of how to defend themselves against it.

Ron was seated in the far back corner--much as he had done during Umbridge's tenure--but the students barely paid him any notice as they deposited their bags and found their seats. From the moment they came in, they all focused up at Harry. Their expressions ranged from mild curiosity to burnished anticipation. Bright sixteen-, seventeen-, and eighteen-year-old faces, all waiting.

He took a slow breath, tried to look each of them in the eye, and asked, "How many of you can conjure a Patronus?"

Their eyes widened, caught off-guard, as Harry supposed he had intended. All but a couple raised their hands, though a few were less than decisive. The few who had not looked slightly sullen--need to salve those egos, Harry thought.

"Corporeal?" Harry quizzed.

Almost half of the hands dropped.

Harry nodded. "Thanks. Hands down. That's better than I would have thought," he said. Then he stood up. "I learned to conjure a fully corporeal Patronus when I was thirteen." Several jaws dropped. A stunning strawberry blonde in the second row--Bill and Fleur's daughter Alithea, Harry was certain--gave a lopsided grin and shook her head in disbelief.

Harry held up his hands and smiled. "I'm not trying to brag. I only learned to do it because Professor Lupin had the patience and skill to teach me and because I had to--there were over a hundred Dementors guarding the school that year from an escaped convict, but no one protecting us from them.

"But the actual reason I brought the question up at all was to help you understand why Professor Lupin could speak in such glowing terms about a man who is, now, not much more than a Squib."

Now the looks of awe melted into incredulity.

"Most of you have heard--from Professor Binns, or somewhere else--how I had the honor to fight with just about every member of the faculty here to defeat the wizard Tom Riddle, who called himself Voldemort. Some of you may even know that I had shared a number of links with Riddle--our power was intertwined in ways that gave us each a certain amount of leverage over the other. When Professor Longbottom... When Neville..." He turned to Alithea Weasley and said, "You know, it's hard for me to think of anyone with hair as red as your aunt's as being 'Professor Longbottom.'" The class laughed, Ron loudest of all.

"Anyway, when Voldemort died, he took with him much of the reservoir of magical power that I had. I still can cast spells, I still know the magic, but I can safely assure you that each of you could easily wipe the floor with me in a duel."

Harry gave them a second to mull this over. One short, white-haired boy, a Gryffindor, looked as if he might almost have wanted to try to challenge him then and there.

"So during the next couple of weeks, Professor Lupin and I have decided that I should focus less on the practical end of Defense--the end that he teaches so peerlessly. I'm going to be stressing, well, not theory, so don't get too disappointed. I want to see if I can get you thinking defensively. I am going to see if I can help you understand not simply how and when to use the spells, but why."

A few of the students whom he had begun to lose, whether because they couldn't conjure a Patronus or because it was hard to take a Defense teacher seriously when he admits he can't out-duel you, now began to nod.

Okay, thought Harry, first part done. Now onto the fun and games. "So, before I launch into things, I figured there were probably some questions." Hands shot up all around the classroom.

Harry pointed at a dark-skinned boy with brilliant blue eyes. "Yes? Your name?"

"Krishna Finnegan, Professor. May I ask, what happened to your scar?" The boy looked around shyly to see if the others thought this question too trivial.

No one seemed to; all were looking up at Harry, awaiting his answer, though some clearly didn't quite understand the question.

Harry smiled. Perfect. "Good question. I went to school with your parents, Mr. Finnegan, did you know?" The boy nodded. Harry smiled. He probably knew most of their parents, when it came to that. "Well, here we are. That question actually gives me the opportunity to begin the lesson. But I'm not going to answer it myself. Miss Weasley is going to do it for me." Eyebrows popped up all over the room. Ron cocked his head.

Harry could almost have laughed, then and there, but he knew he had to play the whole thing out. He turned to Alithea, whose small portion of Veela blood made her seem to sparkle, even though she looked utterly perplexed. "Reach beneath your chair, Alithea. You will find a sealed piece of parchment. Good. Please open it and read it to the class."

The girl flicked a strand of hair out of her face and read, "Many of you probably know that I carried a lightning-shaped scar upon my forehead; for many years, the scar itself served as my main identifying feature, formed when Tom Riddle had killed my parents and then attempted the Avada Kadavra curse on me when I was just a year and a half old. What you probably don't know is that the scar was the outward sign of a powerful protective charm that my mother had placed upon me. This charm was sealed by a form of magical contract: when Riddle attempted to kill me (since he had reason to believe, incorrectly, that I was fated to bring about his downfall), she begged him, 'Kill me instead.' Which he quite mercilessly did.

"When he turned and attempted to use the Unforgivable Curse on me, however, he discovered to his own detriment that he had bound himself into a pact with my mother. She hadn't said, 'Kill me first,' you see, but rather, 'Kill me instead.' It implied a promise to spare me. So when he attempted the curse, it rebounded on Riddle, almost destroying him. The symbol of their bond was burned into my forehead: that lightening-shaped scar. And wizards who didn't know me from Morgan le Fey learned to recognize that scar, for it symbolized Voldemort's first defeat.

"When Riddle came back, a decade later, destroying me became one of his overpowering ambitions. He attempted to kill me, one way or another, six times during my years here at Hogwarts, yet each time the charm that my mother had formed from her own love and sealed with her death defeated him utterly. When he performed the Resurrection ritual to bring himself back to full corporeal being, he even used an ounce or two of this malapert blood of mine, thinking that having my blood flowing through his veins would allow him to get at me--he still hadn't understood the covenant he had bound himself to.

"That is the main weakness of the Dark Arts. They give the practitioner great power, but they tend to blind him or her to the oldest, most intrinsic form of magic there is: the magic of love, trust and loyalty.

"In any case, when Neville Longbottom finally fulfilled the prophecy that Voldemort so feared, the pact to which my mother had bound him dissolved, and the visible sign of that pact--my scar--disappeared." Finally finished, Alithea Weasley placed the parchment on her desk and looked up, wide-eyed.

"Thank you, Miss Weasley. Now, that probably raises a few dozen more questions, but before we get to them, I have a question for you: how did I do that? How did I get the answer to Mr. Finnegan's question under Miss Weasley's desk?"

The students looked at each other, stumped. A mousey Slytherin girl threw her hand up and asked, "Are you a Legilemens?"

Harry shook his head and smiled. "No, even in the days when I still had all my magical faculties, Professor Snape informed me that the same 'lack of subtlety' that so compromised my potion-making made me a poor mind-reader."

He walked into the middle of the classroom--the students at the front turned to watch. "Look," he said, "there are two ways that I could have managed it. The first would involve Legilemency, a very nifty Conjuration, and possibly even time-travel. Well, I've admitted that I'm not a Legilemens--I'm not even much of a wizard these days--and I promise you, even with the Minister for Magic for my wife, the Department of Mysteries would be very unlikely to have issued a Time Turner for my use today."

He looked around. Ron's face was as expectant as the rest. "Can any of you spot the other way to do it?"

The students began glancing around the room, trying to see if anyone else had solved the riddle. They slowly began to shake their heads.

Harry smiled. He had assumed that the most advanced class would be the least likely to spot the solution. "Each of you," he said, "look beneath your desk."

Bemused expressions on their faces, they all bent down. And immediately began to laugh.

Each of them came up holding a piece of parchment.

"There are another fifteen or so hidden in various spots around the room. Each has the answer to a different question that I thought it likely a student would ask--Mr. Finnegan, you are actually holding my answer to the question, 'What is the meaning of Life?'--that being something that Professor Weasley over there used to like to ask whenever a teacher solicited questions."

Ron gave a loud bray of laughter, and the students tittered along with him.

Harry walked back up to the front of the class. "That's a variation on an old Muggle card trick. I learned it, in fact, from a Muggle stage magician named Tom Riddle." Ron nodded, remembering their trip to the past. "Tom Riddle, Sr., that is."

A murmur ran through the class.

"The point," Harry continued, "is that it's easy after six or seven years in these halls to begin to think that magic can solve every problem. That magical threats are the greatest threats. Trust me, a Muggle with a machine gun can be every bit as lethal--if not more so--than a wizard with a wand in hand. Start to broaden your minds. It doesn't have to involve an incantation--it can still save you. It needn't have been brewed in a cauldron--it can still kill you.'

* * *

At the end of the class, the students all filed past him, smiling--each having returned his or her scroll to its hiding place and promised not to divulge the events of the lesson to any other students. They were sworn to secrecy, now part of the joke.

"Bloody brilliant," Ron said, pounding Harry's back. "I told you you'd be bloody brilliant."

Harry shrugged. "Thanks. I always said, if they still had a Divination class here, you should get the post. Doesn't mean I'm not going to make a complete idiot out of myself with the Hufflepuff fourth-years I've got next."

"Nah, go on. You'll be great." Ron cocked his head. "Oi, I've always wanted to know: what is the meaning of Life?"

"'The meaning of Life is the process of finding meaning in living,'" Harry said. "I read that once, in a book."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, too deep for me. Listen, there's some maintenance I've got to do on some of the old Cleansweeps if I want them to be at all flyable. I'll see you at lunch?" As he headed out, he bumped into Neville, who was just coming in.

"Hullo, Harry!" Neville said, cheerfully. "I have a free block, and I was wondering if I could watch some of my fourth-years in action."

Harry shook his head, and Neville's face fell. "It's fine, Neville!" Harry laughed. "You're welcome to sit in. It's just... are you all afraid that I'm going to kill the students, or are you afraid that the students are going to kill me?"

Now Neville began to laugh too. "No, no, no! It's not that, Harry! Well, I suppose it is that, a little. I mean you've been so nervous... But we're all excited that you're here. The DA classes you led were some of the best lessons I ever had at Hogwarts. And that's saying something."

Harry felt himself beginning to redden. "Thanks, Neville." The students had started to trickle in. "Look, you'd better find yourself a place to sit."

The lesson went almost as well as the previous one had. The question that came up was the one that Harry had thought the most likely to be asked: "How do you manage without magic?" It had allowed Harry to launch immediately into his discussion of defending yourself without recourse to a wand. The students had seemed quite excited by some of his ideas.

The third class, after lunch, hadn't gone quite as well. First of all, Luna had sat in, which was distracting--in part simply because she was Luna, and in part because she had to sit behind him on the stairs, as she was too pregnant to sit behind one of the desks.

It was a group of first-year Ravenclaws, and, as Harry had expected, they hadn't been quite as easily misdirected as the older students. One girl, a Muggle-born named Sachiko, had been able to spot immediately how Harry had pulled off the trick. Still, they listened respectfully as he made his points, and several of them waved shyly as they left the room, all promising not to tell anyone 'the secret.'

Harry refused to believe that he had ever been that young.

The third-year Gryffindors began to file in, and Harry's stomach began to lurch again. Siria mouthed "Hi!" as she walked to her desk.

As Harry was about to start, Ginny walked in and closed the door. "Sorry I'm a bit late."

"Not at all... Professor. Have a seat."

Harry found himself regretting that he had agreed to let her sit in. He knew what pheromone-detectors thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds could be. He was certain that they could see the tension between him and Ginny like a vivid red cable, simultaneously pulling them together and pushing them apart. It was one thing Harry didn't want this class seeing--particularly the black-haired student sitting in the third row, directly between himself and Ginny.

He took a deep breath. "By now you've probably heard that I'm not going to be doing a whole lot of practical work in this class--though I hope the other students haven't been too forthcoming about just what I am going to be doing?"

There was a sort of muttering laugh and a nodding of heads. Harry Weasley muttered, "The sixth- and seventh-years just sit there smirking. Won't say a word."

"Good for them," Harry said. "I made them promise not to tell--at risk of Professor Nott brewing something particularly nasty for the one who blabs."

The class let out a communal "Ewww!"

"However, Professor Lupin did leave me special instructions for the third-year classes, in the unlikely event that a Boggart happened to appear here in the castle while he was gone. His classes have dispelled so many of them over the past few decades, I can't imagine why they wouldn't want to hang around." Another laugh, and Harry smiled, relaxing slightly. "As it turns out, a young Boggart has been spotted in the Hufflepuff common room. I've gotten permission from the Professors Longbottom to bring the third-years in there to have a go. So we'll have to put off the famous mystery lecture until our next meeting--Thursday morning, yes, Miss Potter?"

Sidi nodded, trying to look serious. "Yes, Professor Potter." Over her head, Harry could see Ginny grinning brightly.

"So!" Harry called, "books away, wands out, and follow me. This is going to be a practical lesson."

As they filed excitedly through the halls, down towards the kitchen and the Hufflepuff dormitories, Harry discussed with them the basic typological differences between the Scottish and British species of Boggart, and reviewed the basic theory of Boggart-dispellment. "Remember," he said, "that your greatest fear three months ago may not be your greatest fear today. So you've got to be very sensitive to your own psyche, to what it is that would terrify you most if it were to walk out of... that door."

Several of the Gryffindors jumped when he pointed at the large, round wooden door that marked the entrance to the Hufflepuff dormitories. Most of them probably hadn't even been down to this level of the castle--even those who knew the kitchens were here. And he was fairly certain that these students were still young enough not to have begun sneaking into other houses' rooms. At least he hoped so.

"Professor?" Harry said to Ginny. In the torchlight, even the ashen highlights in her hair seemed to glisten.

She walked forward and gave the current password: "Mandragora bifurcata."

"That's common two-legged Mandrake," Harry whispered to Sidi.

"Daddy!" Sidi whispered back hoarsely. Either she already knew this information, or didn't wish to be seen to care.

The huge round door swung outward, and Ginny played the welcoming hostess, ushering the students inside.

Two Hufflepuffs--including one of the fourth-years that Harry had met that morning--looked up at the invading army in some astonishment.

"It's all right, Harris, Jennings. Professor Potter's class are going to help us get rid of our pesky little Boggart friend," Ginny said soothingly. "Oh, and Jennings?"

The older student, who was wearing a prefect's badge, said, "Yes, Professor?"

"Please let everyone know that my husband will be setting a new password this evening." Ginny chanced a very small wink to Harry, which he answered with a smile. Even in these peaceful days, you couldn't trust one house with another house's password.

The boy looked greatly relieved, and set himself up to watch the show, along with the girl, Angelica Harris.

The remarkable thing about the Hufflepuff common room, Harry realized, was that it was so cozy. Huge overstuffed chairs and poufs crowded the room. Bright paintings of various magical plants that Harry recognized as the work of Professor Sprout, Neville's predecessor, obscured the oak-paneled walls. There were two fireplaces, half a dozen teapots and, Harry realized with some surprise, not a bit of the stony medieval bravado of the Gryffindor common room nor of the dark elegance of the Slytherin lair.

Harry arranged the Gryffindors facing a small breakfront cupboard that was squeezed against the same wall as the front door. He looked around and found the girl he had thought would benefit from tackling the Boggart most: a willowy, nervous West Indian girl. "Now, Circe," he said, as reassuringly as he could, "what do you think is the thing that most frightens you, just now?"

The girl's high cheeks became pinched and the blood seemed to have drained from her dark-skinned face. She muttered something Harry couldn't quite hear.

"What was that, Miss Taylor?" Harry prompted.

"Professor Flitwick," the girl whispered, and the whole class--as well as the two Hufflepuffs--broke into loud laughter. Circe Taylor looked around with an embarrassed smile.

Harry tried to imagine being terrified of the miniscule Charms teacher, but realized it didn't matter whether he could imagine it or not. "You should speak with Professor Longbottom--the Herbology professor--about his first Boggart. Circe," he said, "you look like you come from a fairly tall family, yes?"

The girl nodded. "My dad's over two meters tall."

"Well, are his shoes big?" Harry asked.

She held her hands shoulder-width apart.

"And his hat?" Harry continued.

Circe narrowed her hands only slightly.

"Perfect," he said. "Now, when the Charms professor comes walking out of that cupboard, I want you to visualize him wearing those enormous shoes, and with one of your father's gargantuan hats on his head. Then cast the Riddikulus charm, keeping that image as clear in your head as you can."

Circe's face became a mask of determination.

"Ready?" asked Harry. She nodded. "Everyone else stand back--I'll call you forward in turns," Harry said, and then attempted to open the breakfront door with his wand. Nothing happened. "Damn," he muttered and flicked his wand again, this time flinging the door open with a loud bang.

Out of the cupboard stepped the extremely short, and yet extremely terrifying simulacrum of Professor Flitwick, his eyes black with rage, his little fists tightening around his slim wand.

"Riddikulus!" shouted Circe, and instantly the Charms professor was hobbled with a pair of enormous two-tone oxford shoes and a fedora that covered his face to the chin. The class roared with laughter.

"Mr. Weasley!" Harry cried to his godson.

The redheaded boy strode forward with an uncharacteristic look of seriousness. Harry noted that his daughter was watching with anxiety. The Boggart sensed his approach and immediately shifted into the shape of a Hippogriff--the younger Harry's fear of flying was legendary.

"Riddikulus!" yelled Harry Weasley, and the Boggart's wings were replaced with those of a hummingbird. It fell to the ground with a thud.

Harry called Sidi forward, since she was next in line, but was shocked when the Boggart took the shape of his red-faced, yelling self. "Siria Lily Potter!" the Boggart Harry howled. There was laughter--nervous laughter.

"Riddikulus," Sidi said, and Harry watched himself sprout an enormous checkered bow tie, but she was clearly embarrassed by the form the creature had taken.

The rest of class took their chances; the Boggart became, by turns, a snake, a dragon, a spider, a Vampire, the Frankenstein monster (clearly a Muggle-born), Theodore Nott, a vaguely nightmarish image of Voldemort, red eyes and all... Ginny took a turn, and the Boggart took the form of a young boy who looked rather like Harry, but whom he recognized as the young Tom Riddle. Harry found himself shaking his head to clear the image of Ginny lying unconscious on the floor of the Chamber of Secrets, of his own twelve-year-old's urge to kiss her.

When she had dispelled the Boggart Riddle with a crack, Harry himself stepped forward, anticipating that the creature would either appear as a Dementor or as the mutilated body of one of his children. But instead the figure that presented itself was of a young, bushy-haired girl, her eyes overflowing with tears of disappointment. Harry was so surprised that he nearly dropped his wand. He came to himself and yelled, "Riddikulus!" He was relieved that the spell worked on the first try. The crying girl sprouted the long, pink bunny ears that he had planned for the Dementor. The class giggled.

The Boggart was beginning to destabilize, flashing back through a series of its previous avatars. "Circe," Harry called, "finish it off!"

Which she did, with a loud crack, followed by a hearty round of applause. After looking around, still slightly embarrassed, she treated them all to a deep curtsy. All of the students were congratulating her, even the two older Hufflepuffs.

Ginny, however, was staring at him, thoughtful.

"Professor Daddy," asked Sidi as they shuffled back into the corridor, "what does your deepest fear have to do with Minnie?"

Harry didn't know how to answer his daughter, what to say.

Ginny came up behind Siria and said quietly, "That wasn't your sister, Sidi dear. That was your mother, as she was when your father and I first knew her."

Sidi looked up at him for an explanation. But Harry had none to give. "I'm not sure I understand what that was about, myself, Sid." He looked at her. "And am I really that scary?"

She smiled nervously, but didn't say a thing. And with that, they strode back toward the classroom to pick up their bags.