Chapter 478: A Busy Week

The train arrived, and Harry stepped off slowly, wishing he could join the first-years on the boat ride as the true, carefree beginning of his first year—but unfortunately, he was no longer a child who could act on whims, and he had no choice but to board the carriage obediently.

The Great Hall still gleamed as always, golden plates and goblets sparkling under the glow of hundreds of floating candles, while tables lined with students buzzed with chatter. At the head table, professors sat together, including the perpetually distracted Trelawney and Slughorn, who smiled every day until he drained Snape’s capacity for cheer—both of them, the Headmaster’s confidants, flanking the current Headmaster, whose expression was blank, as if lost in thought. And Harry saw Tonks, wearing a faint smile, disguised as a blonde witch by her Metamorphmagus ability—though for a long time, everyone could only call her Doctor.

As he looked around, the doors opened and McGonagall led the first-years into the hall; the Sorting Hat began its usual song, and one by one, students were sorted to their tables. Harry and Ron strained their eyes, hoping to spot a potential Seeker, but sadly, they all looked ordinary, with no discernible flying talent.

Finally, the Sorting ended, and food appeared on the tables. The group chatted as they enjoyed a lavish dinner, and only after they were full did Snape rise to introduce the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Some first-years still asked why last year’s teacher had left, while the older students eagerly anticipated who might appear next year.

After the noisy feast ended, on his way back to the dormitory, Harry noticed a notice on the corridor wall:

All seventh-year students will, over the course of this week, meet with their Heads to discuss graduation internships and career paths; specific times are listed below.

Harry glanced at the list—luckily, McGonagall had sorted names alphabetically by surname, unlike those sycophants who always put his name at the top of meeting lists.

Thus, before meeting McGonagall in her office, Harry still had time to attend Tonks’s Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

“I’ve designed a progressive, systematic curriculum covering foundational theory, practical defensive techniques, and moral education,” Tonks said confidently. “You may scoff now, but believe me—when you see me still standing here next year, you’ll understand the value of this curriculum.”

“But we’ll graduate next year,” said a student in the front row.

“Oh,” Tonks quickly recovered, “but you can always come back to visit me.”

"Alright, let’s talk about what seventh-years should learn in Defense Against the Dark Arts." Tonks flipped to a page far into the textbook. "This year’s curriculum is divided into two parts: advanced Dark Arts defense and NEWT exam preparation. Since you’re sitting in this classroom, you’d all rather do well on the NEWT, wouldn’t you? After all, you can find ways to escape a Dark wizard—but exams allow no running, no help, and no failure."

As she began handing out review materials and exam packets, a student raised his hand: “Will we still have a chance to learn spells and encounter wizarding powers beyond the ordinary?”

“That’s something you’ll deal with after becoming an Auror,” she replied bluntly. “You could join the Order of the Phoenix—it has far lower professional requirements—but the downside is, they won’t pay you or feed you.”

Harry received his review materials, and as expected, they listed various dark creatures and corresponding countermeasures—all topics he’d studied before and would need to memorize and reproduce in the exam. He sighed softly and began reading line by line.

One review class, three reinforcement worksheets—shattered all students’ illusions about the Doctor—though only among fifth- and seventh-years; younger students still adored the new professor, for even if her teaching was harsh, at least her face was beautiful.

Then came Thursday, and Harry nervously sat in Professor McGonagall’s office—he’d last been here for sneaking off-campus to meet someone, and she’d scolded him as a “bad example.”

“Sit down, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said. “I’ve received numerous internship offers regarding you—honestly, an overwhelming number. Nearly every notable industry or company has applied, even one from Number Ten Downing Street: our Muggle Prime Minister is inviting you to serve as—”

She picked up her glasses and read slowly, word by word: “Special Advisor to the Defense Staff, Honorary Commander of the Strategic Command, or Deputy Chief of Defense Staff—choose any one of the three positions.”

“I still hope to remain in the magical world,” Harry said gently.

“Then you’ll need to pick a job,” McGonagall said, pulling a thick stack of brochures toward her. “Given your expressed desire to become an Auror, along with your outstanding grades and record, here’s the Auror Office’s invitation… direct appointment?”

Harry swallowed hard, but he quickly realized what he truly wanted: “Professor, I was wondering… could I stay at Hogwarts?”

“You want to become a professor?” McGonagall, as usual, reached for the Hogwarts Faculty Handbook.

“No,” Harry said seriously. “I want to be a student. Since entering the magical world six years ago, I’ve been caught in one crisis after another. I want, in this final calm, to truly see this school again—just as a student.”

McGonagall seemed taken aback by his answer. She looked moved, even resonant. After a brief moment of composing herself, she said: “I agree, Mr. Potter. I believe you’ve chosen this because you deeply love this school.”

“And to ensure your records aren’t left blank, I still recommend you accept this internship offer from the Minister’s Office—they allow you to fill in any position you wish.” McGonagall handed him a parchment stamped with the official seal.

“But I’m not going to the Ministry,” Harry said, bewildered as he took the paper.

“Your internship position is—Hogwarts Senior Investigator,” McGonagall smiled, encouraging him to write down a title that felt familiar yet strangely distant.

Next, Harry had the right to sit in on any class at any year level—exactly what he wanted, even if Ron would rather sleep.

He started with Hagrid’s Care of Magical Creatures class. Since fifth year, when the word “Care” was removed from the course title, Hagrid had become even more radical and unrestrained: he brought in a bucket of Blast-Ended Skrewts for third-years. Harry had braced himself to help maintain order, but third-years had surprising advantages in single combat against Skrewts—so by the time the creatures returned to the bucket, most were half-dead, save for a few strong yet gentle students.

Then Harry attended the class of the true Seer who never spoke. After being reported once, Trelawney no longer said, “You’re likely to die,” but instead softened it to, “You may see your great-grandmother”—and students whose great-grandmothers were still alive occasionally spoke up in her defense.

And Professor Hooch—even though everyone knew he worked for the Bai Gong, no one bothered him. Harry sat in on one of his lessons and had to admit the professor was exceptionally skilled: he knew how to energize the classroom, explained textbook highlights and difficulties with precision. The only pity was that Harry didn’t understand a word.

After visiting the professors he’d worried about most, time slipped swiftly to the weekend. Harry was already eager to meet Zhang Qiu at the Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop. Just as he stepped out of the common room, Ivy grabbed him.

“Help me, Harry. I know you can Apparate—take me to the Midland Hotel.”

“Where’s that?” Harry spread his hands. “I can’t Apparate somewhere I’ve never been, and I can’t bring anyone with me!”

“Manchester,” Ivy pleaded. “Please, I’ve got an appointment—it’s crucial to my plan.”

Harry thought hard, then had an idea: “Tonks is still at school. We can use the TARDIS to send you there—but you have to tell me who you’re meeting and what you plan to do.”

“Alex Ferguson,” Ivy said firmly. “I want to ask him about team management, operations, and tactical design. This is my only way to get involved in Quidditch.”

Harry racked his brain but couldn’t recall any famous Quidditch player by that name. He didn’t dwell on it, assuming he’d simply never heard of him—his thoughts were already drifting to the tea shop.

He knocked on the door of Tonks’s office. Tonks gladly agreed, promising to accompany Ivy and return her safely. As Harry watched the two disappear into the familiar wardrobe in that oddly familiar office, he felt a deep sense of nostalgia.

That evening, after a pleasant afternoon date, Harry returned to school radiant. He found Ivy back too, carrying a notebook filled with notes. He grinned and offered her words of encouragement.

At that moment, three figures who had been lurking in the common room sprang from a corner and seized Harry’s robe.

“Mr. Potter, since you can use the TARDIS, could you take us to see Nicolai?” Quinn said. “We miss him so much.”

Beside him, his two companions wore the same yearning expression.