Chapter Text
He stood in front of the mirror, straightening his tie one last time. Brown hair combed back, white shirt tucked into his pants, a glimmer of mischief still present in his eyes. Sebastian quirked an eyebrow at his reflection and left to get his bag. It was time to return; time to finally go back home.
Albus Dumbledore took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his long nose, feeling a dull ache throb in his forehead. It was evening at Hogwarts, and the sun was casting a red glow over the grounds and lake, illuminating the castle with its dying rays. It had been a long week, and a bewildering one.
Dumbledore had gotten out of bed the first day hoping to spend most of it outside and therefore abandon his overdue reports for a little while longer, but had instead been interrupted in the middle of his breakfast by a frazzled Professor Sinistra, who had proceeded to outline some extremely unusual and horribly worrying changes in the History classroom. Professor Binns was moving out.
The old ghost had refused to give him an explanation, stating that it was his business and his business alone, before picking up his tailcoat and retreating to the library. He had given Madam Pince an awful fright before settling down near the Restricted Section. Dumbledore had a feeling no more books would be stolen from that section for a while now.
All of that had sent McGonagall into a blinding rage and later, into a confused state of panic. It was extremely difficult to find History teachers, as most graduates of Hogwarts did not take the subject for NEWTs and fewer passed. Those that had did not want to teach History at Hogwarts or were unable to for various reasons. It was very frustrating and the pile of paperwork on Dumbledore’s desk just seemed to keep growing.
There was only one applicant. A man by the name of Sebastian Stan had answered the ad they had published in the Daily Prophet after three days and had asked for an interview with him that afternoon. Exhausted, and somewhat desperate for a solution to the problem, Dumbledore had agreed; after postponing the meeting till six o’ clock. He simply needed to stop and drink some tea. History teachers could wait; he had to preserve his remaining sanity.
A knock sounded on the door following a distant grinding sound from the gargoyle. A murmur of voices came from outside; McGonagall’s, and the unfamiliar tone of the prospective History teacher. Dumbledore put his glasses back on his nose and called them in with a welcoming nod. He looked curiously at the newcomer, feeling several questions bubble up in his throat as he walked in.
The man was tall, with a shock of brown hair and a cheery smile. He held out his hand to Dumbledore as he stood up, and as he shook it, Dumbledore couldn’t help but feel the raised skin of many old scars. He wondered what a man like Stan might have done to have gotten them. With a smile, he asked him to sit down.
The man was pleasant. He seemed fairly ordinary. A little too ordinary to be honest. Perhaps it would do the students some good, thought Dumbledore, tiredly. They needed a little normal. Aloud he said,
“Your qualifications are impressive, Mr. Stan. You might just improve our students’ grades in History. And I admit, if we had not already hired a Defense Professor, I would almost definitely have hired you”
“Then who would have taught History?” wondered Stan out loud, eyes green in the candlelight of Dumbledore’s desk. He clasped his hands in his lap. “I’d like to settle in today if it’s all the same to you. I’m afraid my landlady is on her last tether with me”
“Why is that?” asked Dumbledore, white eyebrows raised.
Professor Stan chuckled. “Something about having too many guests and far too much furniture. I can assure you that that won’t be a problem here”
“I certainly hope not, Professor,” said Dumbledore, nodding. He sent a note to his Deputy with a blaze of phoenix fire, noting the man’s strange lack of reaction. “I would advise you to stay clear of Mr. Filch. He’s the caretaker, and somehow I don’t think you two will get along very well”
“If he’s anything like my former landlady, you can be sure we won’t,” muttered the man darkly, just as McGonagall walked through the door. Her eyes surveyed the room, and Dumbledore could see the moment she decided to welcome the man into the staff.
Near the fireplace, Fawkes watched them with beady eyes. His feathers were ruffled and his wings were folded by his sides like a gleaming red cloak. A change was coming and it would start with the arrival of this new teacher. With a shrill cry, the phoenix disappeared in a burst of flames and the slightest wisp of smoke, leaving behind a single golden feather.
The Ministry approved syllabus, in Sebastian’s loud opinion, was a list of dates and boring people whose names they expected the students to memorize and vomit up at the exams before forgetting everything they had learnt.
“Tell me, which one of you actually knows who took part in the Battle of the Hollow?” he asked the teachers one day, carefully stabbing a potato slice with the end of his knife. McGonagall looked at it in distaste while Pomona Sprout looked interested. “There was a battle at the Hollow? As in, Godric’s Hollow?”
Sebastian sighed and lifted the knife (with the potato still impaled) to point at the air in front of him. “Godric’s Hollow was ruled by the Gryffindor family the whole of the 10th century and well into the 11th before it was overthrown by its disowned heir. You know” he said casually, “Godric. The man who built this” He waved his knife at the Gryffindor table, nearly dropping the potato on the floor.
“Godric was- disowned?” McGonagall stuttered in utter shock and betrayal, her attention finally snatched away from Sebastian’s appalling use of cutlery. “No he wasn’t”
“Yes he was,” countered Sebastian, putting the knife back down on his plate and forgetting about the potato. “The Battle of the Hollow was the last battle where Godric fought on the side of his parents. He left soon after, overwhelmed by the bigotry of his elders and saddened by the plight of the widows and orphans left behind by soldiers on both sides. He was barely nineteen”
Albus Dumbledore was listening to his narration closely. “What happened after that?” he asked when Sebastian stopped. The History teacher stood up and grimly dusted off the lint on his shirtsleeve. “I have work to do,” he said making the staff groan in displeasure. The man had an annoying habit of leaving at the most important part of any story, whether or not it was told by him. “The students are arriving in two days,” he reminded them. “We have to get back to our paperwork. If you are really so interested, you’re welcome to join the students during my first lesson”
Sebastian had worked out a plan where the lower three grades were taught at the same time by him, the fourth and fifth years were taught together another day and the sixth and seventh years another day. However, as no one in the staff seemed to know even the basics, it was obvious that all the students needed some catching up to do. Therefore, he had agreed to have a joint lesson with the whole school in the Great Hall after the first day.
Dumbledore had noticed that Sebastian was only barely following the ‘recommended’ guidelines for history syllabuses when making his lesson plan. The headmaster had said nothing, partly because the blatant defiance of government authority had impressed him and partly because he had no idea what the professor was talking about. At first he’d wondered whether the man was reading the Quibbler, but after being presented with a number of authentic documents and fairly renowned textbooks and being subjected to a very long and yet somewhat interesting rant about misinformation, Dumbledore was quite convinced that the new History teacher was both brilliant and confusing.
Confusing teachers seemed to be what made up his entire life now, reflected Dumbledore, his thoughts drifting towards the other new professor in the staff. Remus Lupin was the new Defense Professor, and his new attitude had thrown everyone who’d known him off. The man had never been the most self-confident, or the best dressed person in the room, but it seemed that now, what had been there was also gone. At least that was what it had looked like until Remus walked up to him and presented his lesson plan. Turned out the werewolf still had plenty of tricks up his worn sleeve, as the syllabus was not something one would expect from someone basically on the run for over a decade. The children’s atrocious past Defense lessons would be made up for.
Lupin stood firm on his stance of not using the Whomping Willow during his monthly transformation. “Children will always be sneaking out,” he said. “You remember what happened with Severus that year.” Dumbledore did remember. He remembered very well. Sirius Black had been the conspirator then, the cruelty of that one trick washing out the good intent behind his other pranks. The staff had never thought the same of him again, and neither had Dumbledore, not until he’d joined the Order and killed to save James.
Perhaps Sirius had been forced to talk that Halloween Night, maybe it wasn’t all his fault. This was the thought that had haunted Dumbledore ever since he’d witnessed Sirius being dragged away by aurors under Barty Crouch’s order. The screams of the doomed man still rang in his ears, even louder since the news of his escape was plastered all over the country, on Muggle shop windows, and Diagon Alley’s famous wall. Sirius had had a deranged charm, he supposed, one that made his former friends still think of him as though there was still some good left in him.
Not Remus Lupin, however, thought Dumbledore, remembering the hard steel in his blue eyes and the stern set of his jaw. Remus would never forgive him for breaking his heart, for leaving him running for so long in the wild. The mention of the man’s name brought the werewolf’s shields slamming up, leaving his warm face shuttered and blank. No, Remus would never forget how Sirius had been the one to destroy his hard-earned family, while simultaneously being the reason it had existed in the first place.
Sometimes love was not enough.
Dumbledore turned his attention back to the man standing patiently in front of him now, and gave the incriminating syllabus back to him. He smiled warmly, displaying none of his dark thoughts. The corners of Remus’s lips twitched in reply and he left the room, his feet padding softly down the spiral staircase like a dog’s. For the umpteenth time that week (month, year, decade), Dumbledore sighed out loud.
The sun was shining brightly down on Platform 9 ¾ as the train puffed in, the sound of children cheering and parents yelling drowned out by the loud ‘Choo-Choo!’ of the steam engine. Robed students filed in and came out almost instantly, not wanting to spend their last few minutes away from their families. Owls screeched and hooted, wanting to get out of their cages and away from daylight. Cats growled at the mice and toads running and hopping around.
Harry Potter leaned his head against the cool glass of the carriage window, letting his eyes fall closed. The chaos that the journey to Hogwarts inspired every year barely affected him. Perhaps a year ago or two ago he would have thought about joining it and contributing to the general noise and merriment, but his mind was too preoccupied with the events that were brought back to memory by the sight of the Express. Hermione’s face, fixed with an expression of nervous anticipation, filled his mind before giving way to the sight of Ron’s wide eyes and curious, clutching fingers as he thumbed the precious book…
He opened his eyes at the sound of a knock on the door. He shot a suspicious glance at the figure visibly silhouetted on the other before giving in and opening it. He came face to face with Anthony Goldstein. The boy shot a curious glance at Harry’s nose, which was almost grazing his left cheek. He looked up to meet Harry’s eyes, and thrust an ink-stained hand towards him. “I’m Anthony,” he said, mistakenly thinking that Harry didn’t know who he was. “Is it alright if I sit here? My compartment is full of idiots”
Despite his light tone, Harry could see the darkening of his expression, hear the emphasis he put on the last word. With a welcoming smile, Harry waved him in and shut the door. He sat down on the seat opposite him, quickly casting an assessing glance over Anthony’s blue robes and comfortable-looking suede shoes. No one had hurt him in the physical sense at least.
“What happened?” he asked. “Ravenclaws don’t usually sit with Gryffindors if they can help it.”
Anthony gave him a wan smile. “And Gryffindors usually put down our irritation and exhaustion to studying too much.”
It was true. The Houses made too many assumptions about each other. Ravenclaws were humans too. Humans were unpredictable creatures. Harry couldn’t imagine that all of them were the same. Rowena Ravenclaw had prized creativity, after all.
“What are you pissed about then?”
Anthony cast a sidelong look at him. “I told you,” he said. “They were all idiots”
“There are many different kinds of idiots,” said Harry. Anthony was silent. He turned his head to look out of the window for a brief moment, and then turned back.
“My parents are Jewish,” he said. “Those people there, their grandparents were followers of Grindelwald”
“Who?” Harry asked. Anthony looked at him in shock. “Grindelwald,” he pronounced with a growing tone of horror. “Dear God, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Grindelwald. He was one of the worst- or best I suppose- dark wizards of the twentieth century. Even worse than Voldemort, if you can imagine that.”
“I can’t,” said Harry, faintly. “I always thought Voldemort was the most powerful dark lord ever”
Anthony scoffed. “Don’t believe everything you hear. People have forgotten how Grindelwald’s influence spread across Europe. Voldemort never went beyond the UK. It didn’t occur to him. Grindelwald helped cause the Holocaust.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was defeated by Albus Dumbledore shortly before Hitler committed suicide. He’s still alive by the way; lives in the tower of Nurmengard, where he used to imprison Jews and Muggles who displeased him.” Harry shivered. There was something unpleasant about the word ‘displeased’ in this context.
“I never knew”
“Of course not,” said Anthony, bitterly. “Binns doesn’t teach us anything that matters. Then again,” he added suddenly, “maybe he thinks it doesn’t…”
“Of course it matters!” exclaimed Harry suddenly, surprised by his own ferocity. “I don’t give a damn about what Binns thinks, and neither should you. He’s just an old ghost who doesn’t know how to stop teaching and can’t speak a word that isn’t about goblin wars.”
Anthony stared at him silently, his eyes intense and unreadable. He changed the topic suddenly. Somewhat. “I heard we’re getting a new History teacher.”
“We are?” Harry said, surprised. “Well, this term should be interesting”
Anthony smiled at him, eyes bright and amused once more. “With you around, Potter, how could it not?”