Headmaster

Headmaster

The strangeness he felt came not from walking into this office: he'd been here many times before this day. The strangeness came only in part from the emptiness of the room: the shelves and cabinets were empty of personal mementos, the desk a bare expanse of antique oak. No, the strangeness flooding through him resulted mostly from the realization that now it was his office, his desk, his place.

There were, as there had always been, portraits of former occupants. Three had been added since he'd first been called into the office, and two had been retired (even magical portraits reach a point at which they desire peace and quiet.) The headmasters and headmistresses in the portraits were quiet, but the man knew well their propensity for observing slyly from behind a façade of sleep.

Memories crowded his mind and flooded his heart. On an ancient stool rested the shabby, patched wizard's hat that sorted new students according to their temperaments ("Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin!") and abilities. The ruby-hilted sword on a lion's head shaped plaque elicited pictures of a blond charlatan, a handsome teenaged wizard, and the King of Serpents. That empty space just there wanted a phoenix on its perch to fill the office with its song. There had at one time been an oval tartan area rug, and matching drapes at the window.

The man paced solemnly around the desk, pulled out the chair. The bronze-and-blue cushions that had padded the seat for the previous occupant were gone. That headmaster had used those cushions in addition to the Omni-Fit charm (which he had invented) that could have positioned him correctly without other aids. He just liked pillows. The man pulled the chair out, and sat down carefully, as though he were trying on a garment he was not sure would fit. The magic rippled, and the omni-fit charm shaped the chair precisely to the new occupant's comfort.

From behind the desk the man focused his eyes on the portrait of his own headmaster. The pictured wizard "woke up" and smiled, his painted blue eyes as twinkly behind the half-moon lenses as ever they had been in life. The next portrait he studied was a witch's. Her severe hairdo and stern expression camouflaged the warm heart she had only rarely allowed to be seen. He turned his gaze to the last, and newest, portrait, that of the tiny wizard who had endorsed his candidacy to the position he now held.

Had it really been such a long time? He counted up the years. At age 15, he had gotten his first taste of teaching. He had defied the very Ministry of Magic in order to teach his friends real defensive magic, and done it well enough that not only did his entire "class" pass their Defense against the Dark Arts O.W.L. with better results than the rest of their year, but also survived the attacks on Hogwarts in the two following years. That was the year he had first articulated his desire to become an Auror. Following the defeat of Voldemort, he fulfilled his ambition, and had served successfully for nearly twenty years. Finally, a very close call during an encounter involving criminal wizards who were trying to organize in the same way Muggle gangsters did brought home to him the realization that a man with a wife and children probably ought not to risk his life on a daily basis. He tendered his resignation the very same day that he was discharged from St Mungo's.

Headmistress McGonagall had been delighted to have on her staff as Defense against the Dark Arts teacher an Auror who still possessed all of his extremities, and had only one visible scar. He had feared that he might become bored or restless in the quiet humdrum of a teacher's life, but instead, a deep contentment grew in him. After all, it was in this place that he had first known the sense of belonging. Returning here to teach felt deeply right, and he came to acknowledge that he would never leave this place. He moved his head and shoulders as if settling a warm mantle into place. The portraits, even Phineas Nigellus Black's, applauded.

A smile lit the living wizard's face. He remembered fearing that he did not belong here, even when the hat had sorted him into Griffindor House on his very first day. His predecessors - now his peers - had just told him that he did belong.

Someone knocked on the door, then entered. A very small, very old, very plump being lead a veritable parade of tiny, burdened beings: the Hogwarts house elf staff carrying in the new headmaster's possessions. In the place where Fawks's perch had stood they put his broomstick, a venerable Firebolt Interceptor IV (Aurors only,) on its custom stand. They put a glass box containing a ring, a locket, a goblet, and a book, all much the worse for wear, on a table just under the ruby-hilted sword. The little beings swarmed the office, filling shelves with books, laying a red-and-gold carpet, hanging red velvet, gold-tasseled curtains, and laying out the leather desk set.

Winky, now mostly retired from active service, took charge of arranging her new headmaster's photographs on a round oak table. A red haired woman and children at various ages blinked as they were brought out of their box and placed on the table. A glow suffused the air over the table and showed the subjects of the photos to their best advantage. His family's photos showed smiles of loving approval, warm pride, intense curiosity and outright exultation - this last from a 10-year-old who whooped and punched the air for his Grandpa.

"Thank you, Winky," said the wizard. "Thank you all." The house elves had grown accustomed to the wizard's courtesies, and bowed.

Winky climbed down from her step stool, bowed and squeaked, "We is all very happy to have Harry Potter as our new Headmaster, sir."

And Harry Potter was very happy to be the new Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was a fitting reward for all that the wizarding world had demanded of him throughout his life.

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