PART ONE: HARRY

 The weather was particularly foul on August 31st, and it was under heavy rain that Harry Potter and his friends made their way to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The ride in carriages pulled by Thestrals was done in silence. Most of the student body was acutely aware that many of their comrades could now see the fleshless winged creatures with dragonish heads and white pupil-less eyes.

Once they’d reached the castle, they quickly hurried inside to escape the weather. Students from years two to seven hurried along the familiar hallways until they reached the Great Hall, where the four long tables awaited them. The room was lit by thousands of candles floating in mid-air, and above them stood a velvety, black ceiling dotted with stars. The tables were laid with glittering golden plates and goblets. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Ginny parted ways with Luna. The spacey blond rejoined her dorm mates at Ravenclaw table, the second table on the left, while the Gryffindor students moved to the one on the far right. Hufflepuff’s stood between the two, while Slytherin’s stood on the far left, and thus, as far away from the Gryffindors as possible.

Harry sat with his back against the wall, and he took a moment to survey the room at large, stopping an instant at the foot of Slytherin table, where Draco Malfoy had just made his grand entrance. The aristocratic blond appeared to have grown another inch during the summer. He wore his fine-tailored robes with a certain nonchalance that exasperated Harry to no end. It was as if he couldn’t be bothered. That holier-than-thou vibe he always had going was probably his most annoying trait. Next to him stood his friends, Vincent Crabbe—who’d grown a couple of inches too, horizontally—and Gregory Goyle—who looked like the embodiment of brawn, not brains.

“Give it a rest, Harry,” Hermione said in warning, having caught the direction of his stare. “For once, let us enjoy the feast and not start a war with the Slytherins on the first day, please.”

“He’s up to something; I’m sure of it,” Harry replied. But he did force himself to look away. He couldn’t have told her why he’d said that. Something in him just knew it. Draco Malfoy was up to something, and knowing him… it couldn’t be anything good.

Directing his attention to the opposite side of the Great Hall, Harry let his gaze wander along the High Table, which stood at the farthest point from the entrance, perpendicular to the other four. The entire Hogwarts staff was already installed, save for Professor McGonagall, whom Harry knew was busy getting the first years ready for their Sorting Ceremony. At the centre of the table, positioned on a throne-like, golden chair, was the current headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore himself.

Harry saw that the seating arrangement had been altered somewhat from their previous year and now was as follows: at the end of the table, on Gryffindor’s side, sat the half-giant Rubeus Hagrid, who taught Care of Magical Creatures. Hagrid seemed to be deep in discussion with the woman next to him, Astronomy professor Aurora Sinistra. On her left was Saturnine—or rather, Professor Leen Nine, Harry corrected himself, mentally—who was their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Next to her was Professor Bathsheda Babbling of Study of Ancient Runes, and then the part-goblin Head of Ravenclaw House, Professor Filius Flitwick, who taught Charms. Next to him was the vacant seat of Transfiguration professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House.

On the other side of Headmaster Dumbledore sat Professor Pomona Sprout, the Head of Hufflepuff House, who taught Herbology. Professor Charity Burbage of Muggle Studies was next. Then came Septima Vector, their Arithmancy professor. Next to her sat her best friend and Flying Instructor Rolanda Hooch and, finally, Sybill Trelawney—whom Harry had a hard time thinking of as a professor—who was notoriously bad at Divination, save for the occasional earth-shattering prophecy. The left half was completed, at the far end of the table, by the brooding Slytherin Head of House, Potions Master Severus Snape, whom Harry also had a hard time calling a professor, for entirely different reasons. The only missing teacher was Cuthbert Binns, who taught them History of Magic, but the man never left his classroom. He had the excellent excuse of being a ghost. So, Dumbledore never begrudged him for missing meals.

Harry was surprised at Saturnine’s positioning, as traditionally Defence teachers tended to be on the left half of the table. Her disguise was the same as he had seen when they’d left Cove Cottage a week ago. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight chignon and her blue eyes were camouflaged beneath a pair of brown contact lenses. Strategically applied makeup made her cheeks appear hollower and higher, gave her eyes an almond shape, and made her lips fuller. Also, she wore the same pair of thick creole earrings studded with sparkling gemstones that were oddly distracting. But that wasn’t all. Her posture was demure and shy to the extreme—a clear departure from her usually confident and alert stance. But beneath her fake, square prescription glasses, Harry saw that her brown eyes were intently scanning the room. When her attention landed on the Gryffindor table, their gazes met and held each other for an instant. She was the first to blink and look away, and Harry felt a tiny pang of pain at that. But this was how it would be between them from now on, he reminded himself. The woman who’d taken care of him all summer had assumed a new role, one that required them to keep their distance and behave as if they were strangers.

“I hate this,” he muttered to himself.

“What’s that, Harry?” asked Dean Thomas, who sat next to him.

“Nothing,” he mumbled, mentally chastising himself. When he looked up, Hermione caught his gaze, and he could see that she understood what his outburst had been about. He gave her a voiceless nod of thanks, which she returned with an encouraging smile.

A moment later, Professor McGonagall made her entrance with the first years, and the Sorting Ceremony began. The Sorting Hat—an old, battered, sentient pointed hat that once belonged to Godric Gryffindor—was placed upon a stool at the head of the Great Hall, whereupon it sung a song of its own composition about the four founders of Hogwarts and the qualities sought by their respective Houses. New students were then summoned to the stool, one by one, in alphabetical order by last name, where they sat down. Then, the Hat was placed on their head. After a moment or two, the Hat shouted the name of the House assigned to each student loudly enough to be heard at the back of the Great Hall.

Once the Sorting Ceremony was finished, Headmaster Dumbledore took a minute to address the students at large. “Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. First off, let me introduce to you the newest member of our staff, Leen Nine. Professor Nine, a graduate of the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, has agreed to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

There was a cursory round of applause at the announcement. At that, the dark-haired witch rose to her feet with some uncertainty. Her shoulders were hunched forward as if she wanted to curl into a tight ball and disappear. Though Harry knew that to be an act, he had to admit she was an excellent actress.

“As you know, each and every one of you was searched upon your arrival tonight. You have a right to know why,” continued Professor Dumbledore. “Once, there was a young man who, like you, sat in this very hall. He walked this castle’s corridors and slept beneath its roof. He seemed, to all the world, a student like any other. His name? Tom Riddle.”

The Hall went utterly silent at that name, and Harry swallowed nervously, as his eyes searched for Saturnine’s. She was looking his way, too, he discovered. And he held onto her gaze for the rest of the speech.

“Today, of course, the world knows him by another name,” Dumbledore continued. “Which is why, as I stand looking out upon you all tonight, I am reminded of a sobering fact. Each day, every hour, this very minute perhaps, dark forces attempt to penetrate this castle. But in the end, their greatest weapon remains—you. Just something to keep in mind.”

Then, at a flick of the headmaster’s wrists, plates all over the four tables were covered in scrumptious food and pitchers filled to the brim with a variety of soft drinks. “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore finished before returning to his chair.

“Well,” said Ron as he lugged a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “That was cheerful.”

“Yeah,” agreed Harry. “So’s the group of Aurors that stand guard just outside the entrance hall.”

Though he knew they were here for his protection and that of every other student, he couldn’t help but dislike the thought of them being there at all. In his book, trained fighters had no business patrolling the corridors of a place of learning, but such were the times they lived in. As the headmaster had so aptly reminded them, the war was waging outside the castle walls—closer perhaps than even they thought. Death Eaters’ raids happened every other week now, and the death toll was well into the double-digits numbers.

“At least the Ministry’s finally seen the light,” muttered Hermione, between two bites of smoked salmon. “Everyone knows the truth.”

“Took them long enough, though,” Harry grumbled. He couldn’t help the bitterness in his tone at the memory of their previous Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor, Ministry employee Dolores Umbridge—another one that Harry couldn’t bring himself to label as professor. His left arm still bore the scars inflicted by her Blood Quill, the faint white lines tracing a familiar I must not tell lies pattern.

“Do you think they’ll finally get him, then? You-Know-Who, I mean,” asked Ginny from where she sat, next to Hermione. “What with everyone looking for him now.”

Remembering the Prophecy that had secured Trelawney’s position at Hogwarts, Harry shook his head. “I doubt it’ll go down that way, Gin.” This war was fated to end in a gruesome battle—Voldemort and his Death Eaters on one side and Harry and his friends, on the other.

“…either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…”

***

“You okay there, Harry?” Hermione asked him, as she settled herself on the Gryffindor common room sofa. “You’ve barely said two words since we left the Great Hall.

“Just got a lot on my mind, I guess,” he replied, and that wasn’t too far from the truth.

“She was different from what I expected,” Hermione said, “Professor Nine, I mean. That’s quite the act she’s pulling off.”

Harry smiled at that, tendrils of pride rising in him. “Yeah, she got the idea from Muggle magicians. Can you believe it? Misdirection and all that.”

The Muggle-born witch chuckled at that, evidently getting it. Beside her, Ron appeared puzzled.

“Still,” Harry continued, “it’s weird seeing her like that. I mean, I know it’s her—but at the same time, it isn’t.” While he could see past the trait-altering makeup and coloured lenses, every time he looked at her, she felt—wrong, somehow. As if she wasn’t his Saturnine. Which was ludicrous, because she surely didn’t belong to him, but still—that was how he felt. Reaching a hand up, unconsciously, the tips of his fingers felt for the necklace with the small ‘S’ pendant she’d given him through the layers of his clothes, and his worry settled.

“I’m sure she’s going to be a brilliant teacher, though,” Ron said, chewing on a Dragon Tendril candy. How the ginger-haired boy could still have room for sweets after everything he’d stuffed himself with over dinner, Harry had no idea. “I mean, did you see how she dispelled Hermione’s fog when we were in the forest? Whatever spell that was, it was fierce!”

“Did you ever find out what it was?” asked Hermione, her brows furrowing. “I tried looking it up, but I couldn’t find anything even remotely close.”

“Didn’t Remus say it was a Windstorm Charm?” Ron asked, stuffing two more strawberry-scented tendrils of gum down his throat.

“Yes, but that wasn’t it,” she said. And Harry recognised the look on her face—whenever Hermione got that way, it meant she was certain to be right.

“Never thought to ask,” he admitted. “I’ll try to remember to talk to her about it, sometime.” Sometime. Whenever he got the chance to speak with Saturnine privately again. He had no idea when that would be. She had said she’d find a way to spend time with him once they were both at Hogwarts. But however she planned to go about it, she hadn’t shared it with Harry yet.

“Sixth year, though,” Ron breezed out. “Can’t believe after this year we only get one more, and then we’re done.”

“We should start revising for our N.E.W.T.s,” mused Hermione. Both boys stared at her in surprise, and she rolled her eyes.

“Dad sat me down for a career talk this summer,” Ron admitted, and it almost sounded as if it had been as bad as the talk about the birds and the bees. “Wanted to know what I planned to do after school.”

“Let me guess. Auror?” asked Hermione knowingly.

“I thought Mom was gonna faint when she heard it.” Ron smiled. “She wants me to have a nice, safe job at the Ministry, like Dad and Percy.”

“Excuse me, but doesn’t one of your brothers spend his time with fire-breathing dragons?” Harry asked.

“Exactly!” he replied loudly, glad that someone saw things his way. “That’s what I told her.”

“What about you, Harry?” asked Hermione. “Any plans?”

Auror didn’t sound half bad, but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to look past the war that lay ahead of him. The way the world was unravelling around them, at an ever-increasing pace—he knew, he just knew the final battle would happen before his time at Hogwarts was over.

What was the point thinking about what lay ahead when odds were so high that he wouldn’t see another sunrise after the last battle’s blood-red one?