Especially Our Enemies

“Welcome, first-years,” I called, pitching my voice so they could all hear me. “Come on out onto the practice field, and we’ll get things rolling.”

I pulled out the parchment with the roll and found that everyone was there. The new-fangled roll call sheets were fantastic for teachers, albeit miserable for students. They recognized who was in class and highlighted everyone who wasn’t. If Fred and George had still been alive, they probably would have come up with something to fool the roll. Mischievous youngsters everywhere had been deprived of a major source of inspiration, I thought. My students gathered in closer to me.

“I trust everyone found the place all right?” A few murmured assent, while others complained quietly. “I know. The castle can be a very confusing place. I still get lost, and I’ve spent ten years here.”

A few nervous laughs scattered through the class, and I smiled. Chaz stood near the back with his new friend, and I caught his eyes for a moment.

“In this class you will learn the fine art of broom-riding. Now, I’m sure some of you have never ridden a broom in your life. Those of you who are Muggle-born may not have even seen a flying broom before. That’s perfectly alright.”

I walked over to my own broom, a handsome old Firebolt, and waved at the other brooms. I wouldn’t be flying it, but I needed something to show the students with. One day I would have to get back on the horse. It didn’t feel like a priority.

“Each of you pick out a broom. They’re all the same, so no squabbling.”

I waited for them to find their places, then continued.

“Broom riding can be dangerous, but if you pay attention and follow my instructions, no one will end up in the infirmary.”

I glanced at Chaz. He was grinning; he might possibly have been the only student who had some serious broom training before he arrived. When I was playing professionally, there was always somebody willing to let him fool around on his or her broom and give a few pointers. I had always thought he might make a good Beater, if he had the inclination.

A number of the children barely got off the ground that morning, but we had no Longbottoms in the class as far as I could tell. I wondered idly if Neville had ever gotten the hang of broom-riding.

Chaz and the others who had ridden before seemed bored, so I dug a beat-up Quaffle out of my bag and let them play a pick-up game. A couple of Muggle-borns commented on how like football it was, just tossing the Quaffle around in the air. I’m sure if the boys of Manchester United caught sight of it, they might disagree.

Finally, though, their time was up. There were some groans; everyone loves flying class, once they get over their jitters. I walked with Chaz as the others headed in, and a few boys hung back to wait for him. That was an excellent sign.

“I’ll be sending your mother an owl tonight,” I told him. “If there’s anything you want to tell her, jot it down and I’ll put it in.”

“Okay.”

“Have a good day.”

“Thanks, Dad,” he whispered, hoping the other boys wouldn’t hear. However, the idea had obviously occurred to them before. Even with a slew of kids in each household, Weasley is not an altogether common name, and my son is as redheaded and freckled as any of us.

“He’s your dad?” a boy asked, as they walked back towards the castle.

“Lucky,” another said.

“I wish my dad was Ron Weasley,” announced a third. “Does he still get free tickets to games?”

Chaz glanced back at me and smiled a little. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad, being a teacher’s kid. Especially a teacher who used to be a professional athlete. Used to be famous, I daresay.

I’d just gotten the brooms back in order when the Slytherins and Gryffindors arrived. They carried cauldrons, so I suspected their first class was Potions. What a miserable thing to have to do at 8:30 am. There already seemed to be enmity between them; some rivalries never die. A few of the older students in both houses were war orphans, and some of those hard feelings go well beyond school grudges. These kids were of course too young to remember the war at all, born after Harry’s last stand and the huge battle that ensued.

When the various houses overcome their differences and rivalries, some tremendous teamwork can take place. I saw that during the war: not every Slytherin joined Voldemort, after all, and their cunning was quite useful in strategic planning. The Ravenclaws provided our logic, the Gryffindors our morale and daring, and the Hufflepuffs the steady glue that held us together and fought until the bitter end. Voldemort, surrounded by only connivers, should have known he was doomed to fall to our united front.

I pushed these thoughts from my mind and stepped forward to address my class.

“Now, those of you in Gryffindor know that I am your Head of House and a Gryffindor alumnus,” I said, once I’d introduced the course. “I assure you all, however, that I will not be treating the Gryffindors with undue favor. Unlike some teachers,” their snickers told me they had indeed been to Snape’s class, “I try to be fair with everyone, no matter what colors they wear.”

A few of the Slytherins sneered triumphantly. I put that down quickly.

“I will not tolerate any house warfare in this class. You are free to torment each other as you please, but not on my watch. That means points from either house.”

Soon the animosity was forgotten, as they were all equalized by their inexperience. Like the previous class of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, there were a few who were already very good, but for the most part they all fumbled around until the period is over. I packed up the brooms and headed in; I had a free period before lunch. On the way to my office, I passed an open door and heard Malfoy’s voice.

I looked in and saw he had the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff first-years.

“Defense Against the Dark Arts is not an easy class by any means,” he said, leaning against the desk. “I plan to challenge you all semester.”

A student from Gryffindor raised his hand. Malfoy nodded.

“Why do we even have to take this course?” he asked. I recognized him as Shaun Finnigan, and found it amusing to see he inherited his father’s tendency to put his foot in his mouth with teachers. I chuckled softly to myself. “Dark Arts have been outlawed since the Great War ended. Nobody’s used them in years.”

“Perhaps Professor Weasley would like to tell you how we all felt the same way when we were children,” he said, looking at me.

“Ears like a cat, I swear to God,” I muttered to myself. Malfoy smiled.

The Gryffindors waved at me.

Malfoy had his sleeves rolled up, and I wondered how many of the students understood the large gray tattoo on his forearm. The Dark Marks turned black during the war, and faded almost immediately after Voldemort’s death. Snape showed me his once, all scarred up from where one of his former allies had tried to carve it out of his arm.

“Professor Weasley is a Knight of the Order of the Phoenix,” Malfoy said, sitting on the edge of his desk and crossing his ankles. “Does anyone know what that means?”

No one offered an answer, and he looked at me expectantly.

“The Order of the Phoenix was the group that fought Voldemort in the first war, and went on to do so again in the second,” I said. His name still had shock value; a few students looked nervous.

“And how did you learn to fight dark magic?” Malfoy asked, his gray eyes seeming to bore through me. “Was it in a Defense classroom?”

“Nobody took the Dark Arts very seriously when we were boys,” I admitted. “Everything I learned, I learned outside the class.”

“Most of our generation was left unprepared when the war started,” Malfoy said, tapping his wand against his leg.

I only had a moment to realize he was going to attack me. He was on his feet in one fluid movement.

“Imperio!” he cried, moving his wand in a complicated arc. I had my wand out faster than I thought I could, and took a bracing step. The Imperius curse is one I was never able to master, but the spells to defend against it are simpler.

“Semper clausus persona!” I answered, making a wide, sweeping x. The force of his spell against mine created a visible light as energy was dispersed. The class looked suitably impressed.

“That didn’t look like much,” Shaun muttered. “Probably couldn’t have Imperiused him at all.”

Malfoy put his wand away. If he could hear me in the hall, he certainly heard Shaun.

“Mister Finnigan, next time you speak to your father, ask him about the extent of my abilities.”

I saw Seamus after the Death Eaters were done with him; that Malfoy had that kind of power and malice terrified me, in that small portion of my brain that still feared the things that lurk in the night.

“There are literally dozens of wizards and witches formally trained in the Dark Arts. Many of them, like me, were Death Eaters during the war. I tell you this not because I wish to frighten you, but because I want you to be safe and smart. When Professor Weasley and I were your age, the world was a far more dangerous place. That does not mean you should grow lazy and leave yourselves vulnerable.” He looked at me. “Thank you, Professor, for assisting me. Will you remain, and audit my class?”

“No thank you,” I said, a little put off. “I was happy to be of assistance.” I left as quickly as I felt I could. Although I had successfully blocked the curse, I had felt the cold, wet slither of his mind against mine.

“Oy there, Ron.” Hagrid’s familiar pat on the back made me stumble slightly. “’Scuse me, Perfessor Weasley,” he corrected himself, glancing around to see if any students or other faculty might have heard.

“How are you this morning, Hagrid?” I asked. He walked beside me as I headed towards my office. I’d left the materials for my history class on my desk. I thought that my first class on the history of the game should include a little primer on the actual play.

“Jes’ fine, thanks,” he said, grinning foolishly. “’ermione was tellin’ me the other day in Diagon Alley that your boy Chaz’s birthday is coming up soon, and I was wonderin’ what I should get him?”

“Oh, there’s no need,” I said, a little worried. Hagrid’s presents tended to be smelly, dangerous, illegal, or some combination of the above.

“Come on, Ron. I promise, it won’t be nothing that explodes.” He crossed his heart and held his hand up to show how serious he was.

“He’s a Ravenclaw, Hagrid. Get him a curious book or something.” Hagrid smiled and I amended my statement. “And if it needs stroking or singing or anything like that to keep it from biting his hand off, make a note in the card, hmm?”

“Oh, I’ll be sure to do that,” Hagrid said, ambling off, murmuring happily to himself. I shook my head and hitched my bag more firmly on my shoulder. Chaz was smart enough not to lose any fingers to a present from dear ole Uncle Hagrid, I hoped. I’d come close a few times myself, and had to have the tip of my ear grown back during seventh year.

My small gathering of sixth- and seventh-years had taken seats on the lawn of the pitch when I arrived. Some were even lying in the field, visible mostly because the toes of their shoes stood above the green. Unlike earthbound sports, Quidditch doesn’t really require the maintenance of the grass around the arena or the sand in the center. The lawn had gotten rather long over the summer.

Unlike my terrified first-years, these students were lackadaisical. They all knew me, knew this was supposed to be an easy course, and knew that the day was too fine for formalities.

“Nice to see you’re all comfortable,” I called. A few sat up. Others simply leaned on one elbow to look at me. I checked my roll; all present and accounted for. “Because I’m going to give you your first assignment.”

They collectively groaned.

“Now, now,” I said, settling down on the lip of the sand pit. “You’ll like this. I want you to write up a short description of your favorite team, past or present. Tell me their colors, their mascot, their record, famous players, or whatever strikes your fancy. Why are they your favorites? It’ll be due on Friday.”

“How many centimeters?” a voice called.

“However many you think it takes,” I answered, smiling. This seemed to encourage them. “If you have any trouble, come by my office. I’ve got stacks of team books and materials for research.”

We had a marvelous time getting a rough definition of Quidditch together, bickering over the rules, deciding who was going to the World Cup this year. I warned them that not every period would be like this. They convinced me to show them the move that earned me a place in the Quidditch Hall of Fame. It was really quite simple, and I wondered at the time why no one had thought to do it before. I caught the Quaffle and feinted a throw, then simply dropped it. One might think it would only work once or twice, but I used it successfully in nearly a dozen games. My teammates learned to get under me whenever I was coming up for a block.

I drew the line at showing them the scars on my shoulder and side from where the steel girders of the World Cup stands tried to tear me in half. The boys seemed especially disappointed. I would have been too, in their place; it was an impressive network of scarring, only partly healed by the doctors at St. Mungo’s. The Bludger itself left no imprint, though my head argued otherwise for weeks afterwards.

My students talked excitedly leaving the pitch, and I walked back with them toward the castle. The hallways were full of students and professors heading to the midday meal, and I let the motion of the crowd carry me towards the Great Hall.

Malfoy sat down beside me.

“I was impressed by your block,” he said, putting his napkin in his lap.

“You didn’t give me much warning. It would have been very embarrassing for you to have put me under in front of your class.”

He shrugged.

“Were you really the one who tortured Seamus?” I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“We were at war. It would have gone more easily for him had he talked,” Malfoy said simply.

I kept my mouth shut, tasting bitterness on my tongue. He looked at me for a moment.

“You’ve changed,” he said. “There was a time when you would have struck me, and to hell with the consequences.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Malfoy shook his head and turned back to his lunch.

“I wish I could have fought you,” he said after a moment. “One on one, back in our prime.”

As far as I could tell, Malfoy was still in that prime, but I didn’t comment on that.

“One of us would not be alive today,” I said.

Malfoy laughed, and it was not the cruel, snide laughter I remembered from our youth.

“You’ve got fight in you, Weasley. I can respect that.”