Chapter Text
There are some days where he regrets moving into Grimmauld Place.
“Open up or I’ll remove all of your screws!” Harry threatens, gripping onto the handle for dear life. But the cabinet doesn’t budge, remaining firmly shut no matter what spells Harry throws at it or how much he hangs from the handle.
He finally lets go, shaking out his cramped fingers. Today of all days for his cupboards to rebel. After moving in just over a year ago, the house has accepted him for the most part but on occasion, it likes to play tricks on him. Usually when he’s least in the mood for it.
“Fine,” he mutters, glaring furiously at the offending unit. “Dinner without the mint sauce.”
That’ll be a fine one to explain to Ron.
But for his first proper roast dinner, he’s not doing too badly. Lamb cooking away in the oven, with roast potatoes, parsnips, and stuffing. Carrots and beans are bubbling on the stove top while he’s been trying to get his gravy as thick and meaty as Molly’s. He has no doubts that his efforts won’t be anywhere near hers, but with Molly and Arthur away caring for Aunt Mildred, they’re having to make do with a lesser version of the Weasley Sunday dinner.
But Ron still raises his nose in the air appreciatively when he and Hermione arrive through the Floo.
“Not bad, mate,” Ron says warmly, accepting Harry’s hug. His face is more freckled than usual from the sunny weather, despite his work as a junior Auror keeping him busy. “Not burned anything yet?”
“Shove off,” Harry says fondly and steps past him to hug Hermione. “It’s not to Molly’s standards but I don’t burn anything. How is Molly?”
Hermione scrunches up her nose. “Sounding miserable,” she sighs. “Aunt Mildred made Molly make the same sandwich three times over, complained that her tea tasted salty, and her Crup keeps biting Arthur’s shoes.”
“Bad tempered old women seem to run in the Weasley family,” Ron says cheerfully, pulling a shopping bag from his pocket and enlarging it. “A glimpse into your future.”
Hermione just rolls her eyes. She’s wearing a lovely flowing dress, suitable for the summer heat. Harry had temporarily cursed doing a roast when it was so warm, and the kitchen was already starting to steam up. But tradition is tradition.
“Your parents were awfully good to go look after her,” Hermione says, as they follow Harry down into the cavernous kitchen.
“No one else wanted to,” Ron says bluntly, dumping the shopping bag onto the table. It makes a promising clinking sound, the lure of cold beverages to drink outside on the patio once they’re full. The garden is still something of a work in progress - it tends to run wild faster than Harry can weed it - but there’s some beautiful flowers and Harry’s new patio furniture set. “Oh Merlin, do you think that’ll be our job one day?”
“Aunt Mildred is nearly one hundred and two,” Hermione says wearily. She digs into the shopping bag and pulls out a bottle of elderflower something-or-other, that looks deliciously fizzy. “She might not be around by the time that your parents can’t care for her anymore.”
“Here’s hoping,” Ron says darkly and throws himself into a chair. “Oh, not that stuff, ‘Mione, where’s the Bogdens.”
Harry hastily sees to his food and stirs the gravy, while drinks are poured. He is persuaded to try some of Hermione’s elderflower fizz, which is surprisingly refreshing, even though Ron stubbornly turns his nose up at it.
“Anyone else coming?” Hermione asks curiously. Normally, a Weasley Sunday is filled to the rafters with relatives and whoever Molly has invited, fearing that they need plumping up. But Harry, doubting his ability to feed so many visitors, had only invited the important few.
“Neville should be here soon,” Harry says, wrinkling his nose at the clock. “And I did invite George and Ginny…the usual suspects. But I think George is with Angelina because he said he couldn’t come. Luna should be coming too though.”
He pretends to not see Ron and Hermione share a glance.
“Is Ginny coming?” Hermione asks carefully.
“No,” Harry says stiffly. “She owled me this afternoon and said that something came up.”
Privately he thinks that an intimate Sunday dinner, instead of the raucous Weasley lunch, where it is hard to have a private conversation, might have made them both uncomfortable. He’d had his stomach in knots about the idea of sitting directly across a table from her but she’d made the decision for them both.
“Practice maybe?” Hermione suggests swiftly, before Ron can butt in.
“Yes,” Harry says gratefully, as someone presses on the doorbell. “Yes, probably.”
He finds Neville at the door, holding a plastic shopping bag and a small pot. Harry accepts both and ushers him in, pleased for the disruption. He knows how hard the Weasleys had found it when he and Ginny had split up, and a year later, discussion of the matter is still unwanted.
“It’s nothing magical,” Neville says anxiously, following Harry down the hall to the kitchen. “Just an ordinary houseplant. I remember you said you’d like more plants around and I thought…”
“It’s great, Neville,” Harry assures him. The plant - something green and frondy - looks sturdy enough to withstand his occasional neglectful care. Anything too delicate never survives long in his presence but he has the basics down. So long as it likes the sunny windowsill in the kitchen, they’ll get on just fine. “Really thoughtful of you. Ron and Hermione are here, we’re just waiting on Luna…”
He finds several trifles in the bag, along with thick cream, so he puts both of these in the fridge while Neville is pushed into a chair and handed a drink.
“Smells great, Harry,” Neville says, finally looking more at ease. “Can’t wait.”
“Not long now,” Harry says, anxiously looking at the clock. If they wait too much longer, the lamb won’t be perfectly pink and the vegetables will turn to mush. “I hope Luna arrives in time.”
“She will,” Hermione says firmly, digging around in the bag. She’s brought a rather interesting mix of beverages, including an apple cider, a cherry cordial and a pumpkin mocktail. “She won’t have forgotten.”
“It’ll be nice to see her,” Neville says. He’s only just returned from Peru, looking gloriously brown. His hair could use a cut but the extra length actually looks good on him. Time in the sun has given him something of a tan and being active in the rainforests has added muscle to the growth spurt that Neville hit in their last year of school. “Your timing was spot on, Harry.”
“How was the journey back?” Ron asks, wrinkling his nose. “Can’t say I fancy it. They sent us on a training course to Stockholm. Long distance Portkeys are the worst.”
“Three Portkeys, a bus, and a Floo when I returned to London,” Neville says, shaking his head. But despite only returning a week ago, he seems no worse for the trip. “It felt like ages, and there was a hold up with our Portkey in Portugal.”
“Good to be home,” Hermione says warmly and Neville matches her smile.
“Yeah,” he says. “Good to be home. They said it would be a year away and I’ve got to say, I’m glad that it didn’t last that long.”
“What will you do next?” Harry asks curiously. In the past few years since school, Neville has been on plenty of expeditions, both in the British Isles and more far flung locations, for the research and preservation of rare magical flora.
“Well,” Neville says, sheepishly. “It was great. We found some incredibly rare magical plants and we’re working towards their preservation...but I missed home. I’d like to stay a little closer to friends and family this time.”
“Did you have something in mind?” Hermione asks, reaching for the bottle of elderflower again. All of them are thirsty in the heat and that’s before they eat lamb and potatoes. Ron and Hermione may be going home with an empty bag.
“I have had a few ideas actually,” Neville says cautiously and pulls out a sheet of paper from his pocket. Ron, Hermione and Harry all lean forward as they peer down at the crumpled page, the clear print of a job advert.
“Herbology professor!” Ron bursts out, looking up at Neville with a wide grin. “You’re applying?”
“I already have,” Neville confesses, looking sheepish. “I saw it a few days ago and wrote a letter to Minerva immediately. Professor Sprout has only just retired…she might want someone more experienced than me but-”
“Rubbish!” Hermione says firmly. “You’ve been on who knows how many expeditions, there’s no one who knows more about magical flora than you…Neville, this is perfect!”
Harry finally looks up from the advert to take in Neville’s hopeful face. There’s a sinking feeling in his chest, that once again, one of his friends has found their place.
Right after the war, all he’d done was go to funerals and trials. And after that, he’d slept. For several weeks, he barely left Grimmauld Place, feeling that he was finally able to rest after so many years. When he’d finally resurfaced everything had changed. People seemed to be moving on, moving up, and he’d felt left behind.
When faced with the offer from the Ministry, he hadn’t been able to stifle the panic in his belly. The letter had been shoved in the bread-bin and abandoned. Every time he’d tried to look at it, he’d break out in sweats. He lay awake at night and when he did sleep, he dreamt of flashes of green light and endless screaming. The thought of late nights stakeouts and cruelty and flying curses...being an Auror wasn’t too different from his year hiding out with Ron and Hermione. And it had taken a lot of time for him to realise that it wasn’t what he wanted anymore.
“Mate, it’s alright if you don’t want to do this,” Ron had said, brow creased with concern.
“Harry, do you think that maybe it’s alright for you to take a break, just for once?” was Hermione’s contribution after she’d found the scrunched up letter shoved behind a loaf of Hovis.
“You’re an idiot,” Ginny had said ruthlessly, plying him with Molly’s homemade biscuits. “Why are you forcing yourself to do something you don’t want to do?”
So he hadn’t. And the day he’d sent an owl back, turning down their offer had been the day he’d finally slept all through the night.
“Harry?” Neville says worriedly, as though he expects Harry to disapprove.
“I can’t think of anyone better,” Harry says, truthfully. Neville would be perfect as a professor, the right person to step into Pomona’s shoes. “Hermione’s right, this really is perfect for you.”
“Thanks,” Neville says, his face splitting into a relieved grin. “I have no idea about teaching…I mean, Merlin, if kids are anything like we were…”
“You’ll learn,” Hermione says crisply. “And anyway, you’re a war hero! Those kids will all look up to you.” Neville flushes predictably, something he does anytime someone mentions his efforts during the war.
“I’m not sure about that,” he says awkwardly. “But…I thought it would be nice to be a professor. A good one, like Minerva or Remus. I like what I’m doing now but I hate being so far away from home.”
“And Hogwarts is as good as home,” Ron says, taking a swig of his beer. “Merlin, I’m almost jealous. Not that anyone would want me as a professor…”
“If you ate the food at Hogwarts every day, you’d never actually turn up to teach,” Hermione says, perhaps quite accurately. Ron occasionally still talks quite longingly about the Hogwarts feasts. “But it does sound lovely. Quidditch matches, Hogsmeade, Christmas time in the Great Hall…”
“Yeah,” Harry says distantly. Something uncomfortable is sitting in his belly, cold and heavy, and he has a nasty feeling that it’s something like jealousy. And he doesn’t want it to be, wants to be as easily happy for Neville as Ron and Hermione are. But then again, they’ve found what they want to do. Ron has made leaps and bounds as an Auror, quickly rising up from a rookie to a well respected member of the team. Hermione works at the Ministry, under the Minister himself, and a likely favourite to work up to the top seat herself eventually. “Yeah, it does.”
But then the timer goes, the noise sharp and piercing around the kitchen and Harry rushes to get up. He stirs and hunts for plates and just as he’s checking on his lamb - juicy and smelling delicious - the doorbell goes again. Neville rushes up to get it and returns with Luna, in a butter yellow sundress and her hair held back with ribbons. She’s also brought gifts - the latest copy of the Quibbler and a suncatcher to hang in his window.
“Hello,” Luna says, smiling around the room “Harry, you look quite hot.”
“Worth it,” Harry grunts, heaving the tray up onto the side and taking off his oven gloves. “Clear the table, you lot.”
There’s a flurry of activity - Hermione efficiently clears the table, while Neville and Luna find placemats and cutlery. Ron refills everyone’s drinks, while Harry slices and divides and pours. Finally, five full plates are delivered to the table, next to a steaming gravy boat. Harry sits down and lets Ron pour him a rather large gin and tonic.
“This looks wonderful, Harry,” Hermione says but she’s the only one with the manners to do so. Luna is studiously cutting up her potato into bite-sized pieces and Neville and Ron are fighting over who gets the gravy first.
“Thanks,” Harry says gratefully. He might not have a clear direction in his life but he can manage to cook a roast. Maybe he’s becoming a reasonable adult after all.
Dinner is pleasant, and Harry finally allows himself to relax. He tries every fruity, sparkly beverage offered to him and eats his weight in meat, potatoes and vegetables. The carrots might be too firm and his yorkshires might not be as fluffy as Molly’s, but he barely notices. They talk about Hermione and Ron’s jobs at the Ministry, Neville’s months away and Luna’s ongoing qualification in Magizoology. Once they’ve cleared the plates, they carry bowls of trifle into the garden, Luna taking the time to hang the suncatcher above his porch before eating hers.
Harry lets the last of the sun warm his face, trying not to think about any future further ahead than cleaning the many pots and pans. They talk and drink until the sun begins to dip down behind the buildings, when people start to go through the motions of leaving.
Luna declines use of his Floo, intending on Disapparating to Quibbler headquarters. “New issue to discuss,” she says serenely. “Senior Minister Gilbert may be taking bribes, you know.”
“Really?” Hermone asks, looking thrown. “Whatever for?”
“He’s supposedly involved in a fairy egg smuggling ring,” Luna says, blinking wide blue eyes at him. “There are rumours of a potion with crushed fairy egg shells that are supposed to improve virility and youth. And his hair has been looking rather thick lately.”
“I see,” Harry says, fond and bemused all at once. He pulls her in for a hug, his nose tickled by the blonde hair and the familiar scent of bergamot. “Good luck with that then. I’ll buy a copy when it’s out.”
“I won’t be,” Ron murmurs, once Luna has vanished out of the door. “That’s even worse than Wrackspurts.”
“The crossword is getting quite good,” Hermione counters, gathering up her bag. “And their interviews have always been very interesting. It’s just that their…investigative pieces are getting even stranger.”
“I think they enjoy it,” Neville says loyally. Hermione and Ron vanish into the Floo and Harry escorts Neville to the front door. It’s a beautifully warm summer evening outside, the sky a tapestry of oranges, reds and yellows.
“Thanks for coming,” Harry says, leaning against the doorframe. “Will you still have time for Sunday lunches when you’re a professor?”
“I might not get it,” Neville counters, ears flushing a bright pink. Even after fighting a war, killing Nagini and standing up to Voldemort, Neville would never be so presumptuous to assume he’d get the job. “I’m quite young…I’m sure there’s more qualified, experienced people than me…”
“And if Minerva has any sense, which I know she has,” Harry argues. “She’ll choose the best person for the job, which is going to be you.”
“I seriously hope so,” Neville sighs, looking out wistfully across Grimmauld Place. The square is quiet, at this time of day, the world gently winding down. “Do you ever feel like…there’s somewhere you’re meant to be? I feel like I’m being pulled back there somehow.”
Harry swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. No, he doesn’t know. His therapist once said that he spent so long with a focused goal, that when it was all over it would be easy to feel as adrift as he does. After all, that goal wasn’t even his to choose.
“Maybe,” he says instead, around the large lump in his throat. “I’m just not sure that I’ve found it yet.”
“Good,” Neville says, giving him a strangely intense look. “Because there’s also this.”
He pulls a second piece of paper out of his pocket, and at first glance, it’s almost identical to the first. But then Harry focuses his eyes and the words become clear as day.
“Defence Against the Dark Arts?” Harry says, wondering for a moment why Neville waited until they were alone to bring this out. But then he realises that it’s not for Neville - it’s for him.
“You should think about it,” Neville says firmly before Harry can protest. “Their current professor is moving to America with her husband. You were so good when we had the DA…and I could see the look in your eye when we were talking about Hogwarts. I know you miss it.”
“We all miss it,” Harry counters but Neville just frowns.
“I think it was different for you,” Neville says in a soft, knowing voice. “I know it was. Hogwarts was home for you in a way it wasn’t for anyone else.”
“Don’t they say you shouldn’t go backwards?” Harry asks, because as much as he’s wished it - maybe he’s meant to be trying to move forwards. He can’t cling onto the memory of Hogwarts forever.
“Maybe you are moving forwards,” Neville insists, pushing the advert into Harry’s unresisting fingers. “The place you were always meant to be isn’t moving backwards.”
Harry clutches the advert in his fingers, sweat creasing the page. Neville’s not wrong. He fits at Hogwarts in a way he’s not sure that he has done anywhere else.
But he’d never really thought about being a professor. He’s not even sure what the requirements are, what the job is really like. When he was younger his dreams were so different and now he can’t even remember why he’d even wanted to be an Auror back then. He feels that after all this time, maybe he should have some idea of what he wants to be but it still seems as distant as it had right after the war.
“Think about it, Harry,” Neville says firmly and disappears into the night, leaving Harry alone on his doorstep.
Harry doesn’t sleep.
He tries. He lays down and closes his eyes. But sleep doesn’t come, no matter how much he fluffs up his pillows, or tosses and turns, trying to get comfortable. He tries to clear his mind, but Neville’s words are the equivalent to the pea in the mattress and it seems determined to keep him awake all night.
Finally, Harry pushes off the covers with a sigh. Maybe getting up for some warm milk will do him some good.
He finds his dressing gown, because Grimmauld Place is not warm at night, even in the height of summer. He’s often searched for the cause of this and so far has come up empty. His only working theory is the cold black heart of Walburga Black sucking all of the warmth from the building, even after her death.
He pads downstairs and finds a saucepan and milk. Everything outside is still, a sign of how late it is, and perhaps it’s masochism that makes Harry dig the job advertisement out of the cabinet. He’d shoved it behind some books and spare quills earlier, almost unwilling to think about it too closely. But now he sits down at the table, waiting for his milk to heat through, and looks at the page.
WANTED. POSITION AT HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY. DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS PROFESSOR FOR THE NEW SCHOOL YEAR. LIVE IN POSITION, COMPETITIVE WAGE, EXCELLENT BENEFITS. PLEASE APPLY WITH QUALIFICATIONS (EXCEEDS EXPECTATIONS AT NEWTS REQUIRED) AND REFERENCES TO MINERVA MCGONAGALL.
Neville must be mad giving this to him, Harry thinks, chewing anxiously on his lip. Absolutely barking. Neville is made to be Herbology professor. He’s kind and calm, encouraging, with plenty of real world experience in the subject. Minerva would snap him up in a minute, if she has any sense - and Harry knows that she does.
But Harry is stubborn and impatient, occasionally short-tempered and difficult. His only real qualifications are a war now in the past, and running an illicit training club for students. His grades were good, even though he never actually took his NEWTS, and he wonders if he can even apply based on that fact alone. He had a very good reason for not taking them, but the advert explicitly asks for them.
He’s pulled away from his thoughts by the milk bubbling and he gets up to pull the saucepan from the heat. He shoves the advert into his dressing gown pocket, hoping that he might be able to put it out of his mind for a little while.
He heads back up the stairs, milk in hand. Maybe he should read a book while he drinks, as clearly sleep isn’t on the agenda tonight.
“You’re being a disgrace, boy,” someone snaps suddenly out of the darkness and it takes all of Harry’s reflexes to not drop the mug down onto the steps.
“Was that necessary?” he snaps, once he’s gotten a grip of himself. His heart still pounds a beat too fast in his chest - he’s used to the portraits by now, but so many of them pay him no mind. Plenty of the Black ancestors view him as an interloper, deeply put out by Sirius leaving the ancestral home to him. When he and Ginny were together, he never once thought about living here, choosing to close it up. He’d thought a few times about selling it but the idea of giving away the last piece of Sirius was too hard. He’d been grateful for it when their relationship ended, and for the most part it’s been a fairly comfortable home. Once he’d taken down the elf skulls, the suits of armor and the umbrella stand, of course.
“I’d say,” Phineas Black says stiffly. Harry had moved the portrait down to the hallway, unwilling to have any watching eyes in his bedroom. He doubts that Minerva uses the portraits in the headmistress’ office as her predecessor once did, but he has no interest in being unwillingly observed. “You are being unusually lily-livered. Even for a half-blood.”
“Thanks,” Harry mutters. He’s occasionally considered consigning all of the portraits to the attic - Merlin knows the former inhabitants of the Black house are far from pleasant people. But so far, they don’t seem to bother him, so he doesn’t bother them. “What have I done to be worthless this time? Aside from living where a Black should be, of course.”
“Buck up,” Phineas retorts. “You’re so afraid of making a decision for yourself that you hide away and don’t ever commit.”
“I don’t know what I want to do,” Harry protests. He’d left school with an idea and that had gone horribly wrong. “I was fighting a war, it’s not like I had buckets of time to sit and think about life after school.”
“You’ve had time since then,” Phineas says sternly. Not for the first time, Harry notices the strong family traits between the ancestral Blacks and Sirius. “What have you been doing with your life since you left Hogwarts? A respectable wizard needs a purpose. Can you say that you’ve offered anything to society since you left?”
“Again,” Harry says slowly. His milk is cooling, and so is he. The staircases are horribly drafty, the floorboards like ice beneath his slippers. “War. Terrorism. Murder. I’ve been busy. If I lounge around this house for the rest of my life, doing nothing more than eating gobstoppers and doing the Quibbler crossword puzzle, I think I have fulfilled the requirement!”
“But will you be happy doing that?” Phineas asks, and the sharp tone is like a knife. “I know you, boy. You may be a feckless half-blood but you’re no layabout. You need something to give you meaning. You don’t know how to function without it.”
Harry stares into the eyes of the portrait, feeling as though Phineas has just pushed him to the bottom of the stairs.
“You’re no Black,” Phineas says, his distaste rather obvious. “But I did think that maybe there was something in you. And I don’t like being wrong.”
Harry exhales slowly. He’s not sure what Sirius would say to him in this situation - it wouldn’t be so rude and full of insults - but Harry thinks that he might say something similar and that is jarring. His Godfather would know every thought going through Harry’s head before Harry had had the chance to even fully form them.
“Good night,” Harry says firmly and climbs the stairs without looking back.
Harry writes a letter at his kitchen table, pausing to take bites of toast and jam, while he thinks about his words. He’ll need to take it to the post office to send, as he never got around to getting another owl. Sometimes this proves to be an inconvenience, but the one time he’d stopped by the Emporium, he felt so sick at the idea of a replacement for Hedwig that he’d hurried away again.
When he’s finished writing, he brushes off a few crumbs and stares down at the piece of parchment. This isn’t a decision he can reach by himself and he can only think of one person best qualified to advise him on something like this. So Harry shoves it in an envelope, addresses it and drags himself back upstairs to get dressed.
He walks quickly through Diagon Alley, heading to his destination with purpose. He joins the queue at the post office and hurriedly Apparates home again. He won’t have to wait long for a response. To keep himself busy, he cleans the kitchen and begins tackling the next patch of weeds in his garden. Finally, when the sun becomes too much, Harry tugs off his muddy gloves and retreats indoors for a glass of lemonade.
There’s a furious knock at his window, a large barn owl rapping at the glass with its claws. Harry rushes to let it in, taking the response and offering it an owl treat. It doesn’t seem in a hurry to take off again, enjoying the treat on the windowsill while Harry unfolds the parchment. The familiar messy scrawl confirms that he is to come for tea as soon as he’s able.
It’s a long trek to Hogwarts. He Floos to the Three Broomsticks, waving at Madam Rosmerta as he passes by. He can Apparate up to Hogwarts’ main gate but has to walk the rest of the way.
Hagrid is sitting on the back step when Harry walks down the path. Fang sits by his feet, looking tired and grey, but still wags his tail when he sees Harry. He has to bend down to pat the dog on the head, before finding himself enveloped in a bear hug by Hagrid.
“Good to see you,” Hagrid says easily. “I thought we’d have tea out here, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” Harry says, looking around at the vegetable patch, the blooming wildflowers. Hagrid has been enjoying the summer as much as anyone else, his tomatoes flourishing, a marrow growing as large as one of Fang’s floppy ears. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“This is your home as much as mine,” Hagrid says, looking surprised. “You’re always welcome here.”
‘Home,’ Harry thinks, as he takes Hagrid’s place on the back step while Hagrid makes the tea. Fang lovingly rests his head on Harry’s knee until Harry rubs his ears. Had it always been so easy for everyone else to see that he left part of himself behind with the castle?
“Now,” Hagrid says, hanging Harry one of the bowl-sized mugs, filled with strong, sweet tea. He’s brought out a stool for Harry, retaking his place on the back steps. “What’s all this about then?”
Harry talks, finding everything spilling out of him without meaning to. Neville’s arrival at dinner last night, the pair of twin job adverts, his talk with the portrait of Phineas.
“I don’t know what to do,” Harry finishes, while Fang yawns widely, showing a distinct lack of teeth. “I never pictured myself as a professor but now it’s in my head, I can’t shake it.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Hagrid says, and digs into his pocket. He produces several chocolate frogs and when he offers Harry one, he doesn’t hesitate to take it. Something about heavy, life-altering conversations requires chocolate.
“I just don’t know if I’m cut out for it,” Harry says pathetically and tugs on the wrapper. To his surprise, it’s Hermione, looking calm and wise, something Harry never quite got the hang of. He bites down on the frog, turning the card in his fingers. “I mean…everyone else seems to think it’s a great idea.”
“Well, why don’t you?” Hagrid asks practically. “You’d be a great teacher.”
“But…” Harry starts and Hagrid just cuts him off, perhaps anticipating the self-deprecating spiel that Harry has had in his head all night.
“I know you’re worried,” Hagrid says, fixing Harry with those familiar warm eyes. “You doubt yourself too much but you’ve always managed to accomplish anything you set your mind to. Why would this be any different?”
“Because…because this isn’t the war?” Harry says weakly. “That was do or die, I had no choice in pushing forward. I just feel like I’m not sure how to do anything for myself without that pressure.”
“That’s something for you to figure out,” Hagrid says practically. “I felt a little of the same after I was expelled. Albus, the man that he was, offered me a life-raft. And sometimes, you look like a man in need of a life-raft.”
Harry absorbs this frank assessment for a moment, finding the way it was delivered not too different from how Neville had pushed the advert into his fingers. Have all of his friends had this thought over the past few years, thinking him drifting without purpose?
“Maybe I have been,” he says finally. “And I know that after the war, maybe I should have been able to think about what I wanted. I just…didn’t know where to start.”
“Let’s go find out,” Hagrid says firmly and relieves Harry of his mug. He closes up the hut and nods to Fang. “Stay, boy. Come along, Harry.”
‘Where are we going?” Harry asks, struggling to keep up with Hagrid’s long strides. Hagrid looks up at the castle, the sunlight gleaming off the top turrets.
“Only way to find out is to see ‘ow you feel about it,” he says, with a faint mischievous glimmer. “You haven’t been here for a long time.”
Their footsteps echo across the empty hall as they enter through the front doors. Harry breathes in, inhaling the smell of old stone, polished wood and candle wax. The portraits twist their heads to stare as they pass up the stairs, around the corridors, and Harry tries to ignore the many following eyes. Their scrutiny only makes the churning in his stomach worse.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom hasn’t changed much since Harry’s time here, five years ago. The dragon skeleton hasn’t moved from its place on the ceiling, overlooking the neatly arranged tables and chairs. The iron chandelier, currently unlit, and the stark, clean blackboard. And at the back, a large mahogany desk and the winding staircase up to the professor’s office.The previous teacher must have removed most of the personal effects as the walls and surfaces are mostly bare, leaving it a blank slate for the incoming teacher.
It feels new and nostalgic at the same time. He can see the pixies darting about near the ceiling, the grindylow snarling in a cage. Lockhart’s simpering portraits all hung in a line on the walls, the terrifying pictures that had adorned the walls when it had belonged to Snape.
“Well?” Hagrid asks expectantly. Harry just exhales. Hagrid was right. And he must see it in Harry’s face because he just chortles and slaps Harry on the back.
“Thought so,” he says with obvious amusement. “Don’t borrow trouble. Being a teacher can be ‘ard but don’t let it frighten you out of applying.”
“But I don’t have NEWTS,” Harry says suddenly, crashing abruptly back down to Earth. “Will that even be alright?”
“You can ask the Headmistress and find out,” a familiar, crisp voice says from behind them and Harry jerks around to find Minerva standing in the doorway.
“Hallo, Minerva,” Hagrid says cheerfully - and a little too brightly, Harry notices. He wonders how much of this was engineered. “Harry here was expressing an interest in the role.”
“So it appears,” Minerva says, with an interested little gleam in her eye. “How wonderful.”
“I didn’t know if my lack of…formal qualifications posed a problem,” Harry says, now somewhat uncertain. Now that he’s realised that he does want it, the worst thing that can happen is being told that he’s not eligible.
“I’m well aware of what results you would have received had you taken them, Mr Potter,” Minerva says firmly. “And no doubt that they would have been exemplary. Not to mention your real world experience makes you…uniquely suited for the role.”
Something eases in Harry, just a little bit more. He’d half-feared that Minerva might dismiss him if he’d tried to apply, perhaps deeming him without the necessary experience or temperament for the role. There’s no doubt that she knows him better than most - and if Minerva, who has seen some of the best and the worst of him, thinks that he should, then who is he to argue?
“I have some time now, Mr Potter,” Minerva says, with the faintest glimmer of a smile. “If you officially intend to apply?”
Harry turns and takes it in one more time. Neville was right, he’s beginning to admit. Nothing about this feels like a step back. It feels like moving in the right direction for once, instead of circling aimlessly. He can see himself here, as easily as he could in the Gryffindor common room, or at the Weasleys’ kitchen table.
“Yes,” Harry says decisively. “Yes, I do.”