Chapter Text
“Show me.” You command, snapping open your tattered map before the face of the cowering man in front of you. “Show me where they are, and maybe I’ll let you walk away.” He raises his hands defensively over his head and shrinks back into the damp stone pillar, struggling under your grip.
“P-please, I don’t know, I swear. I’m-I’m just a middleman, d-didn’t ask any questions!” He blubbers, spittle flying from his thin lips. You dig your wand harder into the loose flesh beneath his chin. A warning.
The white-haired wizard trapped beneath your wand is Elbert Strix, a wizard in his mid-fifties that you’ve been tracking for the past month through Knockturn Alley. Word around town had it that he was a big figure in the black market trade routes and had the connections to smuggle just about anything from as far north as Pitt Upon Ford to the southern reaches of Cragcroft. Tonight you’ve cornered the scoundrel in the alley behind the White Wyvern.
“I suggest you rethink your answer, Strix.”
“What is it you want?” He squeaks, blanching further under the increasing pressure at his throat. “I can offer the rarest of cursed objects, or-or split the commission on whatever the next job is. P-please, they’ll kill me.” He flinches as the wand digs in harder. “T-they’ll-”
“Oh, and I won’t?” You cut in curtly. “I have no interest in such things. Try again. Where?” You repeat, snapping the map once more. He whimpers in resignation and squeezes his puffy eyes shut before jabbing a finger at the map.
“T-There. Rowan is setting up a camp far east of Keenbridge. Now please -”
“Obliviate.” You mutter, and Strix falls silent, his jaw going slack and eyes glazing over as you release him from your grip. Any passer-by won’t question a slumped figure behind the pub; it’s a common enough sight on any given day of the week.
You mull over this new revelation. Far east of Keenbridge. The thought alone is enough to turn your stomach to lead as you come to the realization that Keenbridge isn’t too terribly far south of Hogwarts territory. The revelation adds even more evidence to support what you’ve come to suspect throughout your time spent tracking Strix: the black market trade routes are expanding. It would become dangerous for the students.
You shove the feeling down as you make your way back through the alley towards your flat, lurching on the slick cobblestones beneath your weathered boots. It’s no concern of yours what the trade network has planned. Let them expand for all you care. After all, it’s not like you haven’t benefited from it, as much as you hate to admit it. The task of disbanding the operation may have fallen on your shoulders under different circumstances. In another life, if things hadn’t gone to hell during your final year as an Auror.
You bury the thoughts once more, focusing only on the winding path before you. Once you put enough distance between yourself and Strix, you lean against a lamp post and take a shuddering breath. Though you had wandered these streets time and time again, it was still disorienting. Even more so when the ground beneath you is pulsing, swirling, and turning to mush with each step you take.
The concoction of black market wolfsbane does the trick to an extent. Sure, it’s cut with cheap ingredients, and at its worst it sends the world careening around you, leaving you dazed and disoriented, fighting tooth and nail to put on some semblance of function. At the very least it grants you enough control over your mental capacities on a full moon to live out your miserable days here in the underbelly of Knockturn Alley. Sometimes you even welcome the oblivion, such as after nights like tonight. Nights of tracking down leads and resorting to tactics the old you would have never dreamed of.
When you make it back to your small flat overlooking the heart of Knockturn Alley, you all but collapse into your bed. A pile of papers lies on your bedside table. There’s the unopened eviction notice (not surprising, how could you pay rent while still affording any variant of wolfsbane?), a catalog of new items to expect at the popup wagon in the square, and the unanswered letter from Hogwarts you had received some time ago. It was an invitation to apply to the open position as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for the upcoming term. You sigh. Had things not gone as they had that fateful night two years ago, you would not even consider opening the letter from your alma mater. You should have been receiving promotions through the ranks of the Auror department. You should have been looking forward to and exciting new cases on your desk everyday.
You were lost after being discharged from the Auror ranks. Unable to cope with the curse of lycanthropy and the demands of the job, the head Aurors had deemed you unfit for the field. You had found yourself alone with no savings in Gringotts to fall back on, and wounds too deep to heal to allow you to get close to anyone. Finding Rowan Lyulphus was the only thing that kept you taking the draughts of questionable wolfsbane, the only thing keeping you sane enough to live with yourself.
Find the werewolf. Make her suffer. Kill her.
Now you have this lead from Strix. A lead that will bring you closer to finding Rowan and an application on your desk that could place you in the middle of the expansion efforts of the smuggling routes. Routes that she would surely be commanding.
“It’s too good to pass up…” you murmur into the darkness of your room before weariness drags you into a fitful sleep.
The following day, you meander to the owl post in Diagon Alley. The neighboring streets to the north of Knockturn Alley seem to be a different world to you. You feel too dirty, too marred to be among the bright colors and cheerful vendors that the neighborhood has to offer. The effects of the previous night’s dose of wolfbane is ebbing, leaving that hollow despair in its absence.
You feel yourself beaming to the clerk at the owl post. Hear yourself gush over the opportunity to apply for the defense against the dark arts position as you fumble to secure your application to the knobbly legs of an excited barn owl. You exclaim to the clerk as the owl gives a mighty flap of his wings that of course, you’ve tried the newest brew at the leaky cauldron, just last week in fact! You hear the words all spill from a mouth that you know is yours, but just doesn't feel like it anymore.
You hate every second of the facade. You miss the days when you found joy in connecting with other people. When you felt authentic in your interactions. The only spark of hope you have is that the professors would recognize your name and offer an interview. Surely Professor Fig would vouch for you. He had always been there for you as a student. Maybe you’d even make enough money to purchase the pricey ingredients to brew a stock of pure wolfsbane potion instead of relying on the variant that makes your head spin.
One step at a time, you tell yourself. You can deal with your situation if you get the job. Nevermind how you would stay stocked on some kind of wolfsbane. All you know is that you can’t let them find out. In your experience, no one wants a werewolf working for them.
Hope is a dangerous thing, you decide as you watch the owl disappear into the skies.
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“Miss Pendragon, might I say it’s wonderful to see you again!” Deputy Headmistress Weasley beams. “I do look forward to hearing about your ideas that you might implement in this role.” The most recent, and most familiar applicant for the Defense against the Dark Arts position at that, sits before a panel of professors in the transfiguration classroom. Upon arriving, Professor Aesop Sharp decides that he has sat through more than enough incompetent interviews for this position than he cared for. Perhaps you would be different.
“Now, Matilda, you speak as if we’ve made a decision. Miss Pendragon will have to prove herself just as qualified as the more experienced candidates we’ve interviewed.” Headmaster Black says pompously.
More like the pure-blooded candidates we’ve interviewed, Sharp thinks to himself as he regards the young candidate seated before the faculty. Black had brought in plenty of other candidates to be reviewed, only to be found incredibly underwhelming, by Sharp’s standards at least.
He remembers you well from your time as a student at Hogwarts. You had been a stellar student, he has to admit begrudgingly, if not all too eager to pursue a career filled with danger. Always out and about around the forest getting into some manner of trouble. He distinctly remembers you pestering him about his bygone days of being an Auror. He had found himself mildly surprised to hear that the administration had received a response from you for the position. Black had begrudgingly granted an interview.
“Of course, Headmaster Black,” You respond, your composure not ruffled at the Headmaster’s obvious lack of confidence. Sharp recalls that you’ve always spoken with such calmness for someone of your age as you continue, “I would expect no less. I’m happy to address Deputy Headmistress Weasley’s comment, and perhaps provide some insight as to why I would make a good fit for this role.”
“Please do,” Black drawls in that nasally voice of his.
“I’m of the opinion that Defense Against the Dark Arts should not be treated as an isolated class.” You gesture casually as you address the faculty. “Rather, it’s a culmination of strategies built upon in other classes. This position demands the understanding that students of different ages and abilities will inevitably use different strategies in the field to defend themselves.”
“The dark arts are everywhere, and ever-changing,” you continue. “Curses, artifacts, poisons, creatures. I’ve seen it first hand. My lessons will be curated appropriately to the year and the students I’m teaching, of course.”
“How so?” Prompts Fig curiously. You pull a stack of papers from your backpack.
“Ideas for lesson plans,” you explain, grinning at Fig. “For example…” you shuffle through the papers. “Third years should already have the theoretical knowledge to take down a banshee. They will propose a few unique strategies: Offensive, defensive, evasive, and combination. Once proven capable of executing their ideas, they will face the creature itself, taking note of their observations to what techniques worked best and what had potential.”
“Throughout the year, students will continue building these portfolios of strategies. It is dangerous for a magic-wielder to not be familiar and comfortable with their power,” You conclude, your gaze sweeping expectantly between the professors.
Professor Sharp nods in approval as he meets your stare. The proposal reflects many of the same values he imposes in his own classroom, much to the dismay of his students.
“That’s all very well, Miss Pendragon, but your resume seems to indicate a lack of your own practical experience.”
Sharp doesn’t miss the nearly imperceptible shift in your demeanor at Black’s comment. He may have been out of the field for a few years, but observing such shifts is second hand to him at this point, and ingrained in his muscle memory. You seem to grapple with your words momentarily.
“I respectfully disagree, Headmaster Black.” Professor Garlick chimes in. “I’ve attended seminars at the ministry that featured Miss Pendragon as a speaker for the Ministry’s defensive strategies.” She smiles brightly at you, and you visibly relax. “She has a way of connecting with the audience. It may take some time, but I believe her skill will bloom in the classroom.”
“Miss Pendragon,” Sharp finally speaks. Her attention snaps towards him. “I’m sure you left a life of excitement at the ministry, doing Merlin-knows-what. I think I speak for us all when I say that we’d like to avoid this time-consuming hiring process in the near future, which we can’t very well do if you choose to pursue fulfillment in other more exciting careers than Hogwarts has to offer.” It’s a nudge. Why have you returned?
You look him straight on, and he sees that boldness that always set you apart from other students during your time as a student. Most of his students were too intimidated to so much as glance at him. The moment hangs in the air, and he can sense you assessing his question, tailoring an answer to the audience. Long enough for him to note for the first time the subtle dullness behind your eyes. The same look he’s become familiar with in the mirror.
The moment passes and she responds, “I have no way of proving my intent with this position, other than assuring you that I find myself ready for a career change. There’s little room for upward mobility in the division I work for.” Sharp hums skeptically in response.
The interview continues on, with a few questions from Hecat and Ronen, the latter’s conversation with you quickly devolving into a cheerful debate regarding who would win this year’s gobstones tournament.
Despite Headmaster Black’s prejudiced opinions, you are clearly the most qualified candidate for the position. Sharp observes your responses to the staff’s remaining questions closely. It’s not that he dislikes the idea of you joining the faculty. No, not at all, he decides. There are worse things he could think of. He can’t place it. Something about your energetic demeanor and quick banter is reminiscent of how he remembers you from your years as a student, yet seems wrong. He would confront Fig about it in due time. The two have always been close.
You thank the panel on your way out, Matilda assuring you that “You’ll be hearing from us shortly!” And Ronen urging you to brush up on your Gobstones skills; you would need it. The heavy wooden door closes behind you, and the professors gather to make a decision.
“I think she has some good ideas,” professor Onai says in her warm voice. “A well rounded education makes for a more prepared individual, and after all, isn’t that what we want for all of our students?”
“Professor Onai is correct,” Fig says with a nod towards the witch. The other professors murmur in agreement. “Headmaster Black? Professor Sharp?”
“Hmmph,” huffs Black. “If you all say so.”
“The other candidates were dismal at best,” Sharp assents. “Perhaps the students will stand a fighting chance under her guidance.”
“So be it,” Black grumbles and orders no one in particular, “Send an owl, and have the house elves arrange living quarters should she accept the offer.”