The first week went by rather slowly in Methos' opinion. By the end of it, he was wondering what had possessed him to take this job. Teaching wizards and witches how to fight without their wands was akin to teaching a penguin how to line dance. The Slytherins in all of his classes gave him the most trouble. At least he'd managed to settle down Draco Malfoy that first day - he'd heard from other teachers that the boy could be a menace at times. Other students, such as Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter, along with many others in the Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff houses, were doing well. He supposed they were doing their best, given the circumstances. It was still only a week - he might have them trained yet by the end of the school year.

Muggle Studies went a little more smoothly that Defense Class. Many of the Muggle-born students did very well, which was unsurprising. They did not take up a majority of his classes, however.

That Saturday, as he finished his breakfast and stood up to leave, Dumbledore called over to him, "Adam, if I may have a word with you later on in my office? For tea, perhaps?"

"Certainly, Albus," he answered. He was aware that he was one of the few staff members that called the Headmaster by his first name and couldn't have cared less. After all, he'd known Albus since he was seventeen. Methos was entitled to it.

That afternoon, after spending an hour or so grading papers, he made his way to the Headmaster's office. The gargoyle he remembered from the last time he'd been there, twenty-five years ago, stood silent sentinel in front of the entrance. "Chocolate Frogs," he told it, and it jumped aside.

Methos rode the moving staircase up to Dumbledore's door and knocked. "Come in," came what sounded like Dumbledore's voice from within, and Methos complied.

The office was much the same as it had been the last time. The office was made up of two circular rooms. The first room was lined with bookshelves. They held not only books but odds and ends. The Hogwarts Sorting Hat sat on one of the top shelves. Hanging on the walls above the shelves were pictures of snoring Headmasters from before Dumbledore's time.

The second room was slighter higher than the first one. That one contained Dumbledore's desk which was situated in-between two curving staircases that led up to a balcony with two adjoining hallways. The Headmaster was nowhere to be seen.

Dumbledore's pet phoenix chirped when he saw Methos. He stroked the bird's hair. "Hello, Faulkes. Long time no see."

He heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up to see Dumbledore descending it. "Indeed it has," he said, smiling with twinkling eyes. He clasped Methos' arm. "It is good to see you, my friend. You have no idea how relieved I was when you accepted my offer. Please, sit. I do believe I promised you a cup of tea?"

Dumbledore sat down behind his desk and Methos took a seat in one of the chairs opposite him. The Headmaster conjured up a jug of tea and two cups. Methos took a sip before he spoke, "Albus, you mentioned in your letters that you wanted my advice concerning events in the wizard world. However, I'm afraid that I'm a little behind on the times. Perhaps you could fill me in?"

"Of course." Dumbledore set down his cup. "Where shall I begin? You are aware of Voldemort's fall from power fourteen years ago?"

Methos nodded, remembering how relieved he'd been to hear the news. It had been one less enemy to be afraid of, although he had always known that Voldemort could come back into power at any moment. "So the rumors about the Gringotts attackers are true? They're really Death Eaters?"

"All evidence points to it," Dumbledore said, "Although the majority of the Ministry remains blind. I have some hope of that changing very soon. I only hope that by then it will not be too late."

"You 'have some hope of that changing?' What aren't you telling me, Albus?"

"Many things, Adam, which will take very long to explain. I will tell you everything I can now. Although Cornelius Fudge chooses to remain blind to Voldemort's rise in power, I have taken several measures over the summer that have, hopefully, helped to lessen the numbers of Voldemort's armies. However, the sudden, although not unexpected, disappearance of the dementors and their prisoners does not bode well. If it comes down to it, I will need your military expertise. However, in the mean time, I ask you to help me keep an extra eye on this castle. We have had too much trouble with spies in recent years for me to feel confident that I can protect the students here without any assistance. And with your abilities, I feel that the castle will remain well-protected."

Methos nodded. "I will do what I can." He knew he had no choice.

Dumbledore smiled. "Thank you. I know how hard this must be for you."

Methos gave him a small smile. "This is as much my planet as anyone else's."

His smiled again, and this time, Dumbledore's eyes sparkled. "Indeed. There are a few things I wish you to know."

Methos' eyes narrowed. "Such as?"

"As you have undoubtedly read in the papers, only a few vaults were broken into in the banks in Bulgaria and Egypt. It is uncertain what had been held in those vaults, if anything, and if anything had been taken from them."

Methos noticed something in the wizard's eyes. "You have some idea."

"I am not certain." Dumbledore seemed to pause as he gathered his thoughts. "Have you ever heard of pathic magic?"

Methos frowned. "No."

"It is a type of magic that very little of us can perform," Dumbledore admitted. "Those wizards born with the ability to perform it are almost as rare as parselmouths. Even I am uncertain of all of its uses. I do know that, when a pathic spell is performed, only those that can cast pathic magic can break the spell." He paused. "I have not had time to examine the two vaults that were broken into at the bank in Bulgaria, but I have seen the two in Egypt. Pathic magic was present in both vaults. It appeared that a pathic spellcaster had placed wards around the vaults, although wards against what exactly I do not know. However, only a pathic spellcaster could have gotten through them."

"So you think one of these spellcasters works for Voldemort."

"Yes."

"Another thing I am sure you are already aware of," Dumbledore continued, "Is that Voldemort might came after you for killing Voracnar, although this is unlikely; I do not think he has knowledge of Immortals. Regardless, he will try to after Harry Potter. I ask that you watch out for his safety as a personal favor to me."

"I doubt very much that he will need much of my help, if what I've heard about the boy is true," Methos assured him. "But I will watch out for him."

He took a sip of his tea and shook his head. "If my friends were here, they'd comment that I'm being more noble than I have been in centuries."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled once more. "Well, if I ever meet these friends, I can assure them that is completely false."

"Thank you, Albus. You have made me feel so much better," Methos said, sarcasm in his tone.

"You're welcome," Albus said cheerily. His tone sobered. "You will do what I have asked you to do?"

Methos nodded. "Yes."

The days passed quickly and busily. Snape, as usual, took away points from Gryffindor unfairly, Professor Pierson continued to embarrass any Slytherin who was rude in his classes, which was always delightful to watch, and Professor Mansfield, who was still filling in for Hagrid, wasn't doing a half-bad job at teaching Care of Magical Creatures. Before Harry even realized it, a week and a half had passed. In that time, Professor Pierson had taught every fifth year quite a few wrestling moves. He continued to pick out students as volunteers but picked on Malfoy infrequently. It seemed that the incident on the first day was enough to keep Malfoy in line, although Harry suspected that it wouldn't last forever.

On the Thursday afternoon of their second week, Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat in the library, studying. Ron sat with his arms folded on the table. Across from him was Hermione. Ron was looking uncomfortable. "What is the spell to make a desk turn into a sofa?"

"I forgot," Ron said.

Hermione threw up her hands. "Honestly, Ron. How do you expect to pass next week's Transfiguration Class if you haven't studied?"

"I intend to study plenty. Some of us just don't see the point in starting a week before."

"Well, maybe if you didn't cram everything the night before, you'd make decent grades!"

Madam Pince's head emerged from behind a bookshelf. She glared at them and motioned for them to keep their voices down.

"Hermione, Ron," Harry interjected from his place at the end of the table. He did it quickly before his best friends could start arguing again, "do you remember when your dad though Professor Pierson was someone else? Back in Flourish and Blotts?"

"I think so," Ron said. "He though he was Benjamin Jamison, right?"

"That's impossible," Hermione said. "Benjamin Jamison has been dead for over twenty years."

"Oh, yeah? What do you know?" Ron asked her.

"Well, for one thing, Benjamin Jamison was a muggle, so Professor Pierson couldn't be him. I also know that Benjamin Jamison was responsible for the death of You-Know-Who's right-hand man, Voracnar."

"Voracnar?" Ron repeated. "Never heard of him."

"It's true," Harry said. Hermione's glare, directed at Ron, turned to one of self-satisfaction. "It says here that he and Voracnar fought and Jamison one. Then Jamison's wife, Bethany, died not long after, and Benjamin Jamison just disappeared."

"Okay, so it's true," Ron said. "But what does that have to do with Professor Pierson?"

Harry turned the book around so they could see it. He tapped a picture printed on one of the pages. "Doesn't he look familiar?"

The picture showed a busy day in Diagon Alley. Witches and wizards walked in and out of frame and through shop doors. However, there was a crowd of them in the middle of the alley. They seemed to be clamoring for autographs from someone standing at the center. At first, the admirers were standing in the way of whoever it was, then there was a shift in the crowd and the autograph-signer became visible. Ron and Hermione gasped. He appeared to be an exact replica of Professor Pierson.

"They do look a lot alike," Hermione agreed, "but remember what Pierson said? He said that he's a distant relative and people are always getting him confused."

"No wonder. They could be twins!" Ron said.

"Exactly," Harry said. "Think about it: have either of you ever seen Professor Pierson do a spell?"

"No. Doesn't mean anything, though," Ron pointed out.

"Maybe," Harry said.

/I wish we could contact Nola,/ Melanie projected in a wistful tone, /or Dante and Atalanta./ While they could talk to each other telepathically within the grounds, the wards surrounding Hogwarts prevented them from contacting relatives that were across on ocean. Nola and Atalanta Darmian were their American aunts. Dante was Atalanta's husband, and the two of them had a toddler named Cian. They four of them lived in Louisiana, and they were some of the few Darmians still alive; Melanie and Blake's own mother, who had been a Darmian, had passed away years ago. Their father, a wizard, lived in northern England, and although they could 'path to anyone who was not a Darmian, the wards around the school prevented them from contacted him that way, too. They could always send owls, of course, but only to their father; it was unlikely that an owl could travel across an entire ocean without rest.

Blake snorted, literally. It sounded loud in the otherwise quiet room. /They'd probably tell us to not get ourselves into trouble. Speaking of which, anyone headed this way?/

Melanie reached out with her mind, feeling for the closest brain wave pattern she could detect. Finally, she shook her head. /No. Professor Pierson is in Mad-Eye Moody's office. The two of them are talking./

/What about?/

Melanie gave him an annoyed look, which he missed since his back was to her. /They're talking about the weather, about how it's so nice outside, /she answered sarcastly. /I don't know! I can only locate people's minds. I can't read them. Remember?/

/I remember. Just forget it./

They were in Professor Pierson's office. A month had passed since the two of them had felt something alarming about Professor Pierson, something different. Blake had thought that it was worth investigating his office for anything strange.

"Look at all of these things," Blake spoke out loud. "The battery-powered alarm clock, the photographs that don’t move - they're all Muggle things."

"He could be the only Muggle professor here," Melanie suggested, although she knew as well as him that was unlikely. They'd grown up around Muggles, and they'd never felt anything close to what they'd felt radiating off of Professor Pierson in waves.

Melanie glanced around for about the seventh time. This time, she studied the desk more closely, and noticed something odd about it.

There was a stack of books piled high on the middle of the desk. Many of them she recognized as books from the Hogwarts library. However, there was one towards the bottom of the stack that just seemed to be out of place, although she couldn't have explained what made her think something like that.

She swept a hand through the air. The books, minus the very bottom one, rose into the air and settled back down on the desk a few inches to the right. Melanie picked up the one that had been at the bottom and glanced at the spine. The title of the book seemed to Mysterious Magicks: a narrative of uncommon old and new magical abilities by Jonas Prathor.

"'Uncommon magicks?'" Melanie repeated. An alarming thought struck her and she hastily flipped the book open, searching for an index, then flipped to the page she was looking for. She stared at the caption. /Blake?/

"Yeah?" Blake asked, turning to look at her. He noticed the book and her open-mouthed expression.

She looked up at him. /I think we may have a problem./

Blake hurried over and glanced at the page. "Pathic Magic!" he read, a little louder than he'd meant to say it. Melanie hastily checked to see if anyone had come to investigate; to her relief, she could sense no one wandering in the office's direction.

/We'd better get out of here./ Melanie suggested.

Blake nodded. /Bring that book with you; I'm not leaving that book in Pierson's possession. Better check to see if the coast is clear, Mel./

Melanie searched again for anyone close by and almost swore. /Professor Pierson and Mad-Eye Moody are heading this way!/

Blake's eyes widened. /Illusions,/ he reminded her. He closed his eyes and focused. A moment later, his form seemed to shimmer and disappear, although Melanie knew it was only an illusion - her Darmian-born sight could spot illusions from a mile away. To her red eyes, the area where Blake's body was at seemed appeared slightly off-color. Only a Darmian could have spotted the difference. She quickly hid herself behind an illusion of her own making.

She did it just in time. The door opened less than a minute later. Professor Pierson walked in, and the telltale thump of Professor Moody's wooden leg proceeded the DADA professor into the office. When the retired Auror appeared around the door, Melanie tensed and waited as Moody's magic right eye swept over the room. It passed right over her and Blake, and Melanie relaxed. Evidently, not even something made to detect most types of magic could detect their illusions.

Professor Pierson shut the door. "I've done a little research at Dumbledore's request," he said, "but I've been unable to find much. It seems that the most anything has to say on the subject is that pathic magic is very rare. However, the few accounts of pathic spells being performed do seem to have a few consistencies. Several spells may be performed in one area, and then a week or so later, they are performed half way across the globe. Afterwards the pathic witches or wizards just seem to disappear, and the next account isn't written for another two hundred years. Little is known about the wizards and witches believed to have these abilities."

"It does make it harder to find the current ones, but not impossible," Moody growled.

"Oh?"

"I have spoken with many of the Aurors at the Ministry. They are working on a way of detecting pathic magic."

"I see," Professor Pierson said slowly. He took a seat behind his desk. Moody remained standing. "And would these detectors pick up other rare magic?"

Moody narrowed his eyes but nodded. "It is a possibility."

"Such as?"

He shrugged. "We're not sure yet. It could pick up traces of old magic. It may even pick up things we've never seen before. Something that is just as rare as pathic magic."

Moody was looking hard at Professor Pierson, who didn't seem to notice…or was doing a good job of not showing it.

"What I'd like to know," Moody said after a pause, "Is why Dumbledore wants you in on this. No one seems to have heard about you, and yet you and Dumbledore are old friends."

"I don't much like publicity," Pierson replied with a small smile, as if this was meant as a joke.

"Indeed."

"Why are you at the Ministry, Mr. Moody?" Pierson asked curiously, making another abrupt change in the conversation. "You would be very beneficial to the investigation into the attacks."

Moody seemed to give this question some consideration. "Fudge knows I’m friends with Dumbledore, and he's managed to keep me out of the loop," Moody growled, "or thinks he has - what is it?"

Professor Pierson was staring at the book pile on his desk. /Uh oh…/ Melanie 'pathed to Blake.

He didn't answer.

"One of the books I was using for research is missing," Professor Pierson explained.

Melanie turned her attention to the off-color spot next to her. It didn't move. /Blake?/

Suddenly, Blake's illusion fell, leaving him visible. He didn't seem to notice. Blake was as still as a statue and had a far away look in his eyes. His entire body went slack as he tumbled down to the ground.

"I wonder where he is," Harry said out loud. He, Ron, and Hermione were walking up the staircase to the dorms. They were planning to put their books in their dorms before heading to lunch. They were already running late; the Gryffindor Common room was utterly deserted.

"Who?" Ron asked, distracted as a pretty second year walked by. It wasn't the first time Ron had stared at her. Hermione gave him a look that he didn't seem to notice.

"Hagrid," Harry answered. His two friends finally looked at him, giving him their complete attention. "Do you think he's still doing whatever it is Dumbledore asked him to do?"

"Probably. He and Madame Maxime must be looking for giants all over Europe. I imagine it would take some time," Hermione speculated, although she sounded just as confident as ever that what she said was fact. Not that she shouldn't; after all, she turned out to be right often enough.

"I hope he's all right," Harry said as they entered the hall separating the doors to the boys and girls dormitories. "I just can't shake off the feeling that something big is going to happen soon."

"None of us can, Harry," Hermione told him. "With all these attacks, and You-Know-Who coming into power, it's hard not to."

"It does seem to be a bit quiet," Ron agreed. "I hope it stays that way."

"The Gods must not favor you, Ronald Weasley."

The three friends whirled around. A man stood on the other side of the hall, in front of the boy's dormitory door. He wore thick black robes with the hood down. Although light flooded the hallway, his face was completely hidden in shadow.

"Who are you?" Harry demanded.

"How did you get in here?" Ron inquired angrily.

The man raised his wand. "Get down!" Harry yelled at his friends, but it was too late.

"Erin, Rictus Impedimenta Partialus!"

Ron and Hermione stiffened. A second later, they fell on their sides to the floor. They landed on either side of the hallway, as stiff as two marble columns pushed onto their sides.

Harry's wand was out before he realized it. He raised it and said, "Expelliarmus!"

The spell flew through the air, but before it hit, the mystery wizard waved his free left hand. The spell swerved out of the man's way and hit the wall near his outstretched right arm.

His wand was still aimed at Harry. He said, "Expelliarmus!" and Harry's own wand flew out of his hand and across the hall into the man's empty right hand.

The man pocketed Harry's wand and waved his hand again. Harry flew threw the air, crashing into the wall above Hermione's prone figure. Then he crashed down on top of her, bounced off, and then started falling backwards, head first, down the stairs.