Astoria's face made light of it, but her voice didn't. Beneath the breezy tone she cared, a great deal.
Jon sat quiet for a beat, then smiled, steady and mild. "Of course. I've got the memory. But I'd suggest you leave all that alone for this week and put every bit of your attention on your O.W.L.s."
She nodded dutifully. After a moment, in a small voice: "When the O.W.L.s are over, you'll take me to see the full memory of my mother's case, won't you?"
"Naturally."
"Thank you, Jon. I'll head back then. Transfiguration is tomorrow. I should look through Intermediate Transfiguration one last time in the common room."
"Cramming the night before rarely pays. Go to bed early. Don't fall asleep at your desk in the exam hall."
"Okay!" She flashed him a sweet smile, turned, and left.
As her figure vanished from the Headmaster's Office, Jon drew open the locked drawer to his right. A silver-white glass phial lay inside. He stared at it for a moment, expression distant.
He let out a rueful breath, closed the drawer, and with a light flick of his right hand, set the lock again.
With Astoria gone, Jon Hart bent over a few files, dashed off several signatures, then had Fawkes carry one or two letters.
He was still in the middle of that when a voice rose from the portrait wall. "You have a visitor, Jon?"
He blinked. Who would come now? Professor McGonagall? No—she was with the Wizarding Examinations Authority, seeing off the old examiners.
"Professor Galatea Merrythought of Defence Against the Dark Arts," the old headmaster in the frame announced.
"Oh." Jon's tone lifted; he stood at once. "Do let her in."
A few minutes later the spry old witch who had returned to Hogwarts not quite a month ago stepped into the office, eyes bright.
"Good evening, Professor Merrythought." Jon rose from behind his desk to greet her. "How have you been finding Hogwarts?"
"Splendid." She nodded, pleased. "Food and lodgings both are far better than forty-odd years ago. If not for these old bones, I'd happily stay another year."
"Hogwarts would consider it an honor." Jon smiled. He poured and set a cup of tea before her.
"Oh, you're too kind." She took the cup with formal grace, sipped, and paused with clear satisfaction. "A fine Ceylon black. Thank you. I haven't tasted one in years."
They sat facing each other across the Headmaster's desk.
"Thank you for what you've done for Hogwarts this month," Jon said, cup in hand. "Finding a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor to match you is no easy matter."
Merrythought didn't feign modesty. "Frankly, the standard here has slipped badly in recent years—at least in Defence. Compared with forty years ago, I suspect ninety percent of the current students would be scoring between Acceptable (A) and Dreadful (D) in my class."
"That's true," Jon conceded. "They've had a new Defence teacher every year, with wildly uneven quality. It's no wonder they've learned so little."
"Which brings me to what you asked of me when I came back." Merrythought's voice slowed, the lightness dropping away. "I've found a thread to follow."
Jon had of course guessed her reason for coming: forty years ago, on her previous retirement from Hogwarts, a then-young Voldemort had returned and sought the Defence post. The then Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, refused him. He took it badly. He laid a curse upon the Defence Against the Dark Arts chair, and from then on no Defence professor managed to last a full year at Hogwarts.
Even having anticipated her purpose, Jon couldn't quite keep the quickening out of his chest. "I'll be grateful for any guidance."
"Guidance may be too strong," Galatea Merrythought said, her tone growing grave. "But, as you said, Headmaster Hart, I'm likely the best person to tackle this. Tell me—how much do you truly know about curses?"
"A little," Jon replied. "Generally speaking, a curse needs a definite target. Say, to prank a friend or hamper an enemy—hair loss, broken legs, a bound tongue, and any number of similar little cruelties."
"Precisely." Merrythought nodded. "And that is exactly what makes the Dark Lord's curse so extraordinary. 'The Hogwarts Defence Against the Dark Arts professor' is not a definite target. He could not possibly have foreseen the identity of every future Defence professor."
Jon didn't interrupt. He listened.
"So," she went on, thoughtful, "he remains one of the most brilliant students Hogwarts ever produced. I fell into the same trap as everyone else, until I forced myself to think another way. Suppose his target wasn't the future Defence professors at all, but—"
Jon's face shifted, but before he could speak, she finished it for him.
"Me. Galatea Merrythought."
"He cursed you never to retire from the Defence chair, did he?" Jon asked, calm again. "And because you had never truly relinquished it, every subsequent Defence professor failed to be recognized by Hogwarts."
"Exactly, Headmaster." Merrythought allowed herself a faint smile. "Your speed of inference is impressive. I suspect you had an inkling already, which is why you called me back."
"Blind luck," Jon said with a small shake of the head. Then, more briskly: "Do you have a way to break it?"