Chapter Text
The Singing Mandrake was not the sort of place Albus frequented, though it reminded him somewhat of Aberforth’s so-called pub. The sign outside had been easy to miss, the wood partially rotted and the paint peeling away. Albus climbed a narrow staircase, above a potions shop near the junction of Diagon and Knockturn Alleys. At the top of the staircase was a wooden door, a bell rung as Albus pushed it open, and within was a cramped coffeehouse.
The ceilings were low enough that Albus had to take off his tall, pointed hat, and everything was stained a yellowish-brown from decades, perhaps centuries, of smoke. Dark, dusty curtains were drawn before the windows, leaving only narrow splinters of sunlight where the curtains didn’t quite meet.
Charmed candles bobbed in the air above each table, dripping wax onto the tables and floors. Tables were crammed into every open space, leaving customers to shimmy between them, with quiet apologies as they inevitable stepped on toes or kicked chair legs. The entire shop smelled strongly of slightly burnt coffee, Albus tried not to allow his distaste for the bitter, unpleasant smell show. He much preferred tea himself.
Albus was beginning to wonder if he should have picked the interview venue himself. He’d been curious about what sort of place his interviewee might choose, and he’d grown quite irritated at Aberforth’s frequent interruptions when he tried to hold job interviews in the Hog’s Head. With the war over, security considerations were no longer the deciding factor in where to hold job interviews.
“Good Morning.” A young witch stood near the door, giving Albus a quick smile, “Would you like a table?” She asked. Albus opened his mouth to answer, when an older wizard came walking over.
“Albus Dumbledore?” the man asked. He was shorter than Albus, though most wizards were, and more heavily built too. His hair was a bit shaggy and mostly gray, and his eyes a rather peculiar shade of green, behind rounded glasses. The strangest aspect of his appearance, however, was that this man wore Muggle clothing beneath open black robes. The outfit was clean, and quite well made, with a white formal shirt and black pants, but even though the war was over it remained quite unusual to see grown witches and wizards wandering about in public wearing Muggle clothing so openly.
“Ah, Mr. Evans I presume?” Albus asked. The man gave a smile, looking quite relieved, and held out a hand. A curious Muggle custom Albus had not often partaken in.
“Yes. Harold Evans, very pleased to meet you Headmaster.” Mr. Evans introduced. Albus took his hand, quite excited to have the change to practice his Muggle manners, and gave Mr. Evans’s hand a vigorous shake. Perhaps too vigorous, judging by Mr. Evans’s shocked and slightly pained expression.
“You’re hardly young enough to be one of my students, please call me Albus.” Albus said. He’d always found it a bit odd to be called by his title all the time, especially by adults who’d long since finished their schooldays.
“Of course, and please call me Harold in that case. Thank you for coming, I’ve already found a table.” Mr. Evans said, gesturing toward a round table in the back corner of the coffeehouse. “Unless you would rather sit elsewhere, of course.”
“Please, lead the way.”
In the short walk from the front of the coffeeshop to their table, Albus silently took stock of Mr. Evans, or Harold, as he seemed to prefer. Harold’s dress and manners spoke to a Muggle upbringing, that much was quite obvious, almost shockingly so as even Muggleborn witches and wizards tended to adapt to magical traditions and customs by the time they reached adulthood.
Harold was not at all what Albus had expected after having read Harold’s resume and letter of interest. Those who studied magical history tended, in Albus’s experience, to be of a more traditionalist bent than the average witch or wizard. The field of magical history, even more-so than most fields of magical studies, was dominated by the sons and daughters of old pureblood families who had access to their own family libraries and genealogies for their studies.
A half-blood, or if Albus’s suspicions thus far were correct, Muggleborn expert in magical history would be quite unusual in Albus’s experience. To convince old families to divulge the records and information necessary for most kinds of historical research would be near impossible without existing connections within that community, and neither the Ministry nor Hogwarts held very much in the way of personal records or family histories within their own archives and libraries, few families would give up such information so easily.
Harold showed Albus to a small round table in the back corner of the coffeehouse, a steaming pot of tea was already set out, alongside a few empty cups, as well as a half-finished mug of coffee. Harold sat in front of the mug of coffee, presumably left over from his wait, and Albus sat across from him.
“Tea?” Harold asked, gesturing at the pot. Albus wondered whether someone had perhaps given Harold some warning about Albus’s preferred drink, or perhaps Harold had simply guessed. At Albus’s nod, Harold poured a cup, “Sugar? Cream?”
“Allow me.” Albus said, preferring to handle such things himself. No one ever added enough sugar for his taste. Harold handed over the cup, and pushed the cream and sugar toward Albus’s side of the table. Harold made no further comment as Albus dropped spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his tea, though judging by his raised eyebrows, Harold was not entirely unfazed by the sight.
Only once Albus took his first sip of tea did the interview truly begin.
“I received your resume, and I must say, your work history is quite unusual.” Albus began, not bothering for subtlety. After decades of hiring, and firings, Albus knew better than to let his interviewees dictate the terms of their interviews. “Your prior teaching experience was…unexpected.” Even more unexpected now that Albus had met Harold in person.
“Yes, I suppose I don’t really have the Durmstrang look.” Harold agreed after a sip of coffee. Albus thought that calling it the Durmstrang look was a rather polite way to put it, but yes, Harold hardly looked the type to have taught at Durmstrang.
“Professor Kauko Arponen kindly invited me to lecture at Durmstrang some years ago, he still teaches history there I believe, though we haven’t been in touch for some years. I’d been trying to gain access to Durmstrang’s libraries for my own research for some time, and Kauko and I met through some mutual acquaintances. As a lecturer, I was able to continue my own research, while teaching a few classes each term. Kauko wanted someone to take over some of his classes, and I wanted access to the libraries, it worked out to the benefit of both of us.” Harold explained.
Albus vaguely recognized the name Kauko Arponen, but he didn’t think they’d ever met. Albus had visited Durmstrang only a few times in his life, though not in many decades, but he’d only ever become familiar with the headmaster there, and Gellert’s old dueling instructor (long since dead at Gellert’s hand).
“Did you attend Durmstrang as a student?” Albus asked, quite curious how a man with as obvious a Muggle upbringing at Harold might have become involved with an institution well known for its refusal to admit Muggleborn or half-blood students. Harold scoffed, as though the very idea were a bit amusing.
“Heavens no.” Harold said. “My childhood education was quite scattered.” Albus took that to mean Harold had no formal magical schooling as a child, though given Harold’s age (Albus guessed him to be in his seventies or eighties, though with wizards it was often difficult to tell) it was not at all surprising to hear that he’d been educated at home. When Albus was young, many families still distrusted any Ministry supported schooling, and most children were simply taught whatever trade their parents knew. Albus doubted it was much different during Harold’s childhood.
“And what of your Mastery?” Harold looked relieved at the change in topic, and Albus could understand why a self-educated wizard might be uncomfortable discussing his childhood in front of someone such at Albus, who ran one of the most prestigious magical schools in Europe (at least, Albus liked to think of Hogwarts at such).
Albus was firmly of the believe that every young witch and wizard ought to attend school, but he understood that many could not, and thought it was hardly something to be embarrassed about if one were taught at home rather than in school.
“The Mastery in Magical History, I assume?” Harold asked. Albus momentary paused.
“Is there another?” Harold had only listed a single mastery in his resume. Harold ran his fingers through his hair, looking a bit embarrassed.
“Well, it’s a bit complicated.”
“History first then.” Albus said, though he fully intended to get the full story on that complication.
“Yes, well, that Mastery was awarded by Miskatonic University’s Department of Occult Studies. I graduated in 1978, and the history program at Miskatonic is fully recognized by the United Colonial Congress of North America.” Harold explained. Albus had heard of Miskatonic University; it was one of those strange institutions that they’d developed in the Americans, wherein the school had both Muggle and magical programs, though in theory the two were completely separate from one another, and Muggle students would never learn of the magical coursework on offer. The Ministry, and most European and East Asian magical governments had long since outlawed such mixed institutions, the risk of exposing Muggles to dangerous magic was far too high in the view of most, but things in the Americas were different.
“Do you have additional Masteries? You mentioned some complications?” Albus asked. Harold sighed.
“None recognized by the British Ministry of Magic.” Harold sounded somewhat resigned about that fact. Albus gestured for him to explain further. “I also hold a Mastery of Magical Theory certified by the Finnish Office of Witchcraft and Rune-Song, awarded in ’56.” Harold explained. Albus blinked, momentarily surprised. Harold shifted slightly in his seat, watching Albus’s reaction.
“The British Ministry still recognizes the Finnish magical population as being under the rule of the Witch’s Duma, so masteries certified by the Office of Witchcraft and Rune-Song aren’t recognized by the British Ministry. I believe they’re avoid any diplomatic spats with the Duma.” Harold offered a bit of a shrug, “I suppose that would be your area of expertise.”
Albus could only assume Harold was referencing Albus’s position as the Ministry’s representative to the ICW. The Office of Witchcraft and Rune-Song had only been around since ’17, anything less than a century old was rarely paid any attention in magical politics, where the oldest magical governments had histories stretching back thousands of years.
“The joys of politics.” Albus said, sharing a quick chuckle with Harold.
“That’s one way to put it.” Harold agreed, taking another sip of coffee.
“Magical theory, a fascinating subject.” Albus had dappled a bit in magical theory, but personally considered it rather dry, and without style or personal flair. “Have you published?”
Harold had listed some of his history publications in his initial letter of interest, though none of his papers or manuscripts had been circulated in Britain to the best of Albus’s knowledge, but Harold had included no mention of his background in magical theory in his prior letter. Albus supposed that Harold might have thought it irrelevant given that he was applying to a job teaching history, but Albus was rather curious.
“Some, but I’m afraid the Ministry has taken issue with some of my writings.” Harold explained, with a sigh.
Albus understood that particular pain, the Ministry’s rather overenthusiastic Office of Public Morals had taken to banning broad subject matters in recent decades, especially since the war.
“My most recent publication was circulated in Germany, however. I may be able to get a copy reserved at a bookshop in Germany, to be picked up next time you are there on ICW business.” Harold offered.
Albus nearly laughed at Harold’s boldness, while it was not quite illegal to tell someone where to purchase texts banned by the Ministry outside of Britain, it was certainly close enough to the edge of the law that few people would bring it up to the head of the Wizengamot himself. Much to Albus’s disappointment, it had become increasingly difficult to get his hands on banned texts in recent decades. People tended to shy away from discussing, much less selling such banned works to him now that he held a seat in the Ministry, and his personal library had most definitely suffered for it.
“I may take you up on that offer.” In their short time speaking, Albus found he rather like Harold, and his easy-going attitude. The respectful, but not at all reverent tone Harold took toward Albus, despite obviously knowing something of Albus’s history and accomplishments, was quite refreshing.
The interview continued for an hour or so longer, with Harold’s background out of the way, they discussed teaching. Harold expounded on the differences between Muggle and magical education with the expertise of someone who has experienced both. Albus thought his earlier assumption that Harold was Muggleborn, or less likely, a half-blood raised by a Muggle parent, to be very likely by now.
It would be terribly rude to ask someone directly about their blood status, especially during their first meeting, but Harold’s Muggle manners and his ease in speaking about Muggle education gave his background away. Harold wore his Muggle heritage on his sleeve, quite literally too given the Muggle garb he wore under his open robes, and Albus rather appreciated the stubborn attitude of someone who walked around with their politics so clearly on display.
A few years ago, Albus might have thought a such a man insane for wearing Muggle clothing so openly, or brave to the point of foolishness to say the least, but since Voldemort’s fall is had become fashionable among the more radical Muggleborns and the like to take some measure of pride in their heritage, and their survival.
When the interview came to its end, Harold and Albus said their goodbyes. Harold had evidently paid for the tea and coffee at their table ahead of time, which Albus only learned when he went to the counter to pay.
“You should receive an owl within the week.” Albus said, leaving open the possibility that he might still hire someone else. Harold nodded, seemingly not overly nervous at the prospect.
When they went their separate ways at the bottom of the narrow staircase leading up to the coffeehouse, Harold turned and walked down Knockturn Alley, while Albus turned down Diagon Alley.
A woman wearing a long, gray robes with a floral scarf tied over her hair, followed them out of the coffeehouse. She’d been sitting only a few tables away during the interview. As Albus meandered down Diagon Alley, she fell into step beside him. After a short time, her appearance rippled, and in her place walked a stout, heavily scarred man with a peg-leg and an electric blue false eye.
“Alastor, how lovely to see you today.” Albus greeted with a sly smile. “I suppose you have something share.” Alastor grimaced as he pulled the floral scarf off of his head and stuffed it into his pocket.
“I don’t like him.” Alastor reported, quite bluntly. Albus merely hummed, unsurprised by his old friend’s assessment.
“Did you get enough information from the interview?” Albus asked.
“Of course,” Alastor scoffed, “I’ll look into him.” Neither man considered it strange in the least that they were going to be illegally using Ministry resources to run a background check on a potential employee. It was hardly the first time they’d done so.
“Let me know when you’ve found something, we could meet for tea, perhaps?” Albus asked. Alastor looked like he’d much rather not, but to a man with a mind like Alastor’s, anything short of meeting in person would be far too insecure for sensitive information.
“Better that than the mail.” Alastor agreed, and without warning, he vanished with a noise like a whip-crack. Albus shook his head at his friend’s antics, but continued his walk. It was a lovely day in Diagon Alley.