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Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he studied Harry with renewed interest. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "your perspective on practical defense raises an intriguing point about our current... climate here at Hogwarts."
Here it comes. Harry kept his expression neutral, though his pulse quickened. "Oh?"
"The Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum, while thorough in theory, has always been somewhat lacking in practical application." Dumbledore's eyes took on that familiar twinkle. "Students learn about dark creatures and defensive spells, but they rarely learn how to actually fight for their lives."
"Fighting for your life is different from passing an exam," Harry agreed carefully. "Theory doesn't help much when someone's trying to kill you."
"Precisely." Dumbledore rose from his chair and moved to one of the tall windows overlooking the grounds. "These are... uncertain times, Harry. There are whispers of a wizard calling himself Lord Voldemort, gathering followers who style themselves Death Eaters. I suspect you're already familiar with their work from what happened at Hogsmeade."
"I've had the displeasure, yes."
"The Ministry, of course, insists these are isolated incidents. Random acts of violence by disgruntled individuals." Dumbledore's tone suggested what he thought of that assessment. "But I find myself wondering if our students shouldn't be better prepared for... possibilities."
Harry stood as well, moving to join Dumbledore at the window. Below, he could see students moving across the grounds in the fading afternoon light. Somewhere among them were his parents, Sirius, Remus.
"What kind of preparation did you have in mind?" Harry asked.
"A specialized course, perhaps. Advanced practical defense. Combat applications." Dumbledore glanced sideways at Harry. "Taught by someone with real experience in such matters."
The offer I've been waiting for. Harry kept his excitement carefully hidden. "You're suggesting I teach here?"
"I'm suggesting you consider it. A temporary position, naturally. Working with our older students—, fifth, sixth and seventh years who might benefit from your... unique expertise."
Harry was quiet for a moment, watching a group of Gryffindor students engaged in what looked like an impromptu Quidditch practice. "What makes you think Hogwarts needs that kind of training? Specifically, I mean."
Dumbledore's smile was slight but telling. "Call it an old man's intuition. Though I suspect your own experiences have given you similar... intuitions."
"My experiences suggest that when someone starts calling themselves a Dark Lord and recruiting followers, it's usually not a phase they grow out of," Harry said dryly.
"Indeed not." Dumbledore returned to his desk, settling back into his chair. "Tell me, what do you know of this Voldemort character?"
More than you want to know and less than you need to. Harry chose his words carefully. "Enough to know he's not going to be content with small-scale terrorism. Men like that... they have grander ambitions."
"Such as?"
"Control. Power. The reshaping of the wizarding world according to their vision." Harry met Dumbledore's gaze directly. "And they're usually willing to kill anyone who stands in their way."
"A sobering assessment." Dumbledore's expression had grown more serious. "Based on what evidence?"
Harry was silent for a long moment, thinking of prophecies and Horcruxes and the litany of death that would follow. "Patterns, Professor. History repeating itself. The rhetoric, the recruitment methods, the targeting of specific groups..." He paused. "It's not random violence. It's systematic."
"Systematic," Dumbledore repeated softly. "Yes, I've begun to suspect as much myself." His blue eyes sharpened with interest. "You speak as though you've seen this before."
"Different war, same tactics." Harry's voice was flat. "The people who think they're superior to everyone else, who believe their blood makes them better, who think murder is an acceptable tool for achieving their goals... they tend to follow predictable patterns."
"And in your experience, how does one fight such people?"
Harry's smile was cold. "You prepare for the worst and hope you're wrong. You train people to survive what's coming. And when the time comes..." He shrugged. "You do what's necessary."
Dumbledore leaned forward, his expression intent. "What's necessary?"
"Whatever it takes to protect the innocent." Harry's voice was quiet but carried an edge of steel. "Even if history judges you harshly for it."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with implication. Finally, Dumbledore spoke again.
"This teaching position," he said carefully. "What would you require in terms of... freedom?"
Smart man. He knows I'm not planning to just sit in a classroom. "The ability to continue my own work when needed. I won't abandon the fight just because I'm teaching others how to join it."
"Your work hunting dangerous creatures?"
"Among other things." Harry's smile was sharp. "There are a lot of monsters in the world, Professor. Not all of them are creatures."
"Indeed." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with what might have been approval. "And you would be comfortable teaching students barely younger than yourself?"
"Age isn't always relevant to experience." Harry thought of all the times he'd had to grow up too fast, all the lessons learned in blood and fear. "Sometimes the youngest teachers have the most important things to say."
"Particularly about survival."
"Especially about survival."
Dumbledore was quiet for a long moment, clearly weighing his options. "There would, of course, need to be discussions with the other faculty members. Arrangements to be made."
"Of course." Harry paused, then decided to push slightly. "How long do you think we have, Professor? Before this Voldemort makes his real move?"
Something flickered in Dumbledore's expression—surprise, perhaps, at the directness of the question. "What makes you think there will be a real move?"
"Because men like that don't stay in the shadows forever. They build their power base, gather their followers, eliminate their enemies... and then they strike." Harry's voice was matter-of-fact. "The only question is timing."
"And your assessment of that timing?"
Harry thought of all the dates he'd memorized, all the events he knew were coming. Regulus taking the Dark Mark in October. The Meadowes family in November. The McKinnons the following summer.
"Soon enough that waiting isn't an option," he said finally. "If we're going to prepare these students, we need to start now."
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, those blue eyes seeming to peer straight into Harry's soul. "You're a very interesting young man, Harry. Full of knowledge that seems to come from sources you're reluctant to discuss."
"The world is full of dark corners, Professor. Sometimes you learn things you'd rather not know."
"Indeed." Dumbledore smiled slightly. "Very well. I believe we can arrange something. A trial position, perhaps. See how you take to teaching, how the students respond to your methods."
"And if they respond well?"
"Then perhaps we can discuss a more permanent arrangement." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Though I suspect permanent isn't really what you're looking for."
No, what I'm looking for is a way to save everyone I love. "I'm looking for a way to make a difference, Professor. However long that takes."
"Then I believe," Dumbledore said with a smile that was both warm and calculating, "we understand each other perfectly."
"Before we proceed further," Dumbledore said, rising from his chair, "I confess myself curious about these unconventional techniques Professor McGonagall mentioned. Would you be willing to provide a small demonstration?"
"What did you have in mind?"
"Nothing elaborate. Perhaps something that might illustrate your approach to defensive magic?" Dumbledore gestured to an open area of the office. "I promise not to judge your methods too harshly."
Harry stood, drawing his wand. "Defensive magic is about more than shields, Professor."
He flicked his wand toward one of the delicate silver instruments on Dumbledore's desk. "Protego Variabilis." The shield that sprang up wasn't the typical transparent barrier, but something that shimmered and shifted, its surface rippling like water.
"A variable protection charm. I don't believe I've encountered that particular variation before."
"Standard shields are predictable," Harry explained, maintaining the spell with minimal effort. "They block everything or they fail completely. This one adapts to the threat—stronger against curses, more flexible against physical attacks, completely permeable to harmless magic."
He canceled the spell and pointed his wand at a heavy bookshelf. "Mobilicorpus Multiplex." Instead of the usual single-target levitation, three books rose simultaneously, moving in complex patterns around each other before settling back into place.
"Multiple target animation," Dumbledore observed with growing interest. "Most impressive. Such precise control suggests extensive practice."
"When you're outnumbered, efficiency matters." Harry's voice was matter-of-fact. "One spell that affects multiple targets is better than casting several individual charms."
"Indeed." Dumbledore returned to his chair, those blue eyes studying Harry. "Tell me, where does one learn such innovations? They're not taught in any curriculum I'm familiar with."
"Necessity is a harsh teacher, but an effective one. When conventional magic isn't enough, you learn to... improvise."
"Improvise," Dumbledore repeated thoughtfully. "That suggests a level of theoretical understanding that goes well beyond basic spell modification. Such innovations require deep comprehension of magical principles."
Harry moved to examine one of the portraits on the wall—a wizard he didn't recognize who was pretending to sleep. "Understanding magic isn't just about memorizing incantations and wand movements, Professor. It's about recognizing the underlying patterns, the ways different types of magic interact and influence each other."
There was something in his tone that made Dumbledore lean forward slightly. "You speak as one who has witnessed great suffering."
Harry was silent for a long moment, his hand unconsciously moving to touch a scar hidden beneath his shirt—not the famous one on his forehead, but one of many others earned in a war that hadn't happened yet.
"I've seen what happens when good people refuse to fight," he said finally. "I've seen the cost of noble intentions and moral high ground." He turned from the portrait to meet Dumbledore's gaze. "Sometimes protecting innocents requires sacrificing your own innocence."
"A heavy burden for one so young to bear."
"Youth is relative, Professor." Harry's smile was bitter. "Some of us grow up faster than others."
"Tell me," he said finally, "what do you believe is worth sacrificing for? What principles justify the loss of innocence you speak of?"
The question hit deeper than Dumbledore probably intended. Harry thought of his parents, of Sirius, of all the people he'd already lost and was trying to save.
"Love," he said simply. "The people we care about. The children who deserve to grow up in a world where they don't have to learn to kill before they learn to live." His voice grew softer. "Everything else—honor, purity, even our own souls—those are luxuries we can afford to lose if it means protecting what really matters."
"And yet," Dumbledore said gently, "without those things—honor, purity of purpose—what separates us from those we fight against?"
Harry's laugh was hollow. "Nothing, Professor. Absolutely nothing. The only difference is that we try to preserve something worth saving, while they destroy everything they touch." He met Dumbledore's eyes directly. "The question isn't whether we're different from them. The question is whether we can live with becoming monsters if it means the people we love don't have to."
Dumbledore's expression had grown troubled, as if he were seeing something in Harry that he hadn't expected—or perhaps something he recognized too well.
"You carry great pain," the old wizard said softly. "Loss that goes beyond your years."
"Everyone carries pain, Professor. The trick is making sure it serves a purpose."
"And what purpose does yours serve?"
Harry looked out the window at the darkening grounds, where students were making their way back to the castle for dinner. Somewhere among them were James and Lily, young and alive and completely unaware that their son was watching them from a tower window.
"Remembrance," he said quietly. "And the determination to never let it happen again."
Dumbledore followed his gaze, and for a moment, both men stood in contemplative silence.
"I believe," Dumbledore said finally, "that you may be exactly what Hogwarts needs, Harry. Though I suspect Hogwarts may not be prepared for what you'll bring to it."
Neither are you, Harry thought. Neither are you.
"Very well then,"Dumbledore said without looking up. "I believe it's time we made this official."
Harry watched the quill move across the parchment, catching glimpses of formal language and official terminology. This is really happening.
"The position," Dumbledore continued, setting down his quill, "would be that of Special Instructor in Practical Defense. You would work exclusively with our fifth, sixth and seventh year students—those old enough to handle advanced techniques and mature enough to understand their implications."
"How many students are we talking about?" Harry asked, though his mind was already calculating. Sixth years would include his parents, the Marauders, Severus Snape, Lily Evans... all the people whose futures hung in the balance.
"Approximately almost three hundred students across the three years groups from all four houses of Hogwarts. We would begin with voluntary attendance, naturally. Word of your... credentials... has already begun to spread through the castle. I suspect we won't lack for interested pupils."
Harry nodded. "When would you want me to start?"
"Next Monday, if that suits you. Classes could be held in the evening, after regular instruction has concluded." Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. "Though I should mention that this arrangement would require you to take up residence at the castle. We have quarters available in the faculty wing."
Living at Hogwarts. Being here every day, walking the same halls as James and Lily... Harry pushed down the surge of emotion. "That would be acceptable." Harry hesitated, then decided to push slightly. "What about the other faculty members? I imagine some of them might have... reservations about bringing in an outsider."
"Let me worry about Minerva and the others," Dumbledore said with a slight smile. "I'll need to discuss the arrangement with them, naturally, but I believe I can make them see the wisdom of it." His expression grew more serious. "Particularly given the current climate."
Harry knew if he was going to live in Hogwarts, he needed to find the Marauder Map as soon as possible, he was already risking his identity by being here, if he was going to live here, it would be only a matter of time until one of them decided to use the map, and if they saw his real name, they would have questions, questions he didn't want to answer, at least not yet.
"There is one other matter," Dumbledore continued. "The question of curriculum. What exactly do you intend to teach these students?"
"Survival," Harry said simply. "How to stay alive when someone wants you dead. How to fight when running isn't an option. How to make the hard choices that keep other people safe."
Dumbledore nodded slowly. "I'll have Professor McGonagall show you to your quarters tomorrow evening. You can use Sunday to settle in and prepare for your first class." He paused, his blue eyes twinkling. "Any questions?"
Just one. "The students—will they know who I am? I mean, my reputation?"
"I imagine word of the mysterious werewolf hunter will have reached them by now," Dumbledore said with evident amusement. "Young people do so love a mystery."
"Thank you, Professor. For the opportunity."
"Thank you, Harry," Dumbledore replied, gripping his hand firmly. "I have a feeling this arrangement will benefit us all."
As Harry walked toward the door, Dumbledore's voice stopped him. "One last thing—what shall I tell the students to call you? Professor Harry seems somewhat... informal."
Harry turned back, his hand on the door handle. "Just Harry will do fine, Professor. I'm not much for formality."
"Just Harry it is, then."
Harry stepped out of the office. In three days, he would be teaching at Hogwarts. In three days, he would be in the same room as his sixteen-year-old parents.
Time to see if I can change the future without destroying the past.
The Three Broomsticks
The Three Broomsticks glowed warmly in the early evening light as Harry approached, the new wards doing their job around the building's perimeter. He could see Rosmerta through the windows, moving efficiently between tables as she cleared away the remnants of the morning's destruction.
The bell above the door chimed as he entered, and she looked up with a smile that seemed to chase away the shadows of the day.
"Well," she said, straightening from where she'd been examining a scorch mark on the floor, "look who's back in one piece. I was beginning to worry Dumbledore had decided to keep you."
"He tried," Harry said with a slight grin, moving to help her right an overturned chair. "Though not in the way you might think."
Rosmerta paused in her cleaning to study his face. "You look... different. Pleased with yourself, almost."
"Do I?" Harry ran a hand through his hair, suddenly aware of the weight of what he'd just committed to. "I suppose I should be. Dumbledore offered me a job."
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "A job? At Hogwarts?"
"Teaching position. Practical defense for the older students." Harry helped her stack the broken pieces of what had once been a rather nice mirror. "Apparently my... methods... impressed him."
"Your methods," Rosmerta repeated dryly, gesturing at the lingering evidence of the morning's battle. "I can see why." She moved behind the bar, pulling out a bottle of firewhiskey and two glasses. "Drink?"
"Please."
She poured generous measures for both of them, then leaned against the bar, studying him with those perceptive brown eyes. "Teaching. That's quite a change from hunting monsters in the Highlands."
"Not such a change," Harry said, accepting his glass. "I'll still be hunting monsters. I'll just be teaching other people how to do it too."
"The students, you mean?" Rosmerta's voice carried a note of concern. "Harry, they're children. Some of them barely seventeen."
If only you knew what seventeen-year-olds are capable of when they have to be. "They're old enough to learn how to protect themselves. Old enough to understand that the world isn't always safe."
Rosmerta was quiet for a moment, sipping her firewhiskey. "This is about the war you keep mentioning, isn't it? The one that's coming."
Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak around the sudden tightness in his throat.
"And you think teaching these students will help? Make a difference?"
"I think," Harry said carefully, "that when the time comes, they'll have a better chance of surviving. Of protecting the people they care about."
She reached across the bar to touch his hand, her fingers warm against his skin. "What about protecting yourself? Who's going to do that?"
No one. It's always been just me. "I can take care of myself, Ros."
"Can you?" Her grip tightened slightly. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're planning to put yourself in even more danger. Teaching at Hogwarts, right in the heart of things..."
"Dumbledore's wards are strong," Harry said, though he knew that wouldn't be enough when Voldemort finally made his move. "And I'll still have my freedom to come and go as needed."
"Your freedom to hunt monsters, you mean."
"Among other things." Harry finished his drink and moved around the bar to stand closer to her. "Ros, what I'm doing... it's important. These students, they're going to face things that their regular professors can't prepare them for."
"And you can?"
"Yes. I can."
Rosmerta studied his face for a long moment, then sighed. "You're not going to change your mind about this, are you?"
"No."
"Then I suppose I'll have to settle for worrying about you from a distance." She moved closer, her hand coming up to rest against his chest. "When do you start?"
"Monday. I'll be moving into the castle tomorrow night."
"So this is our last evening together for a while."
Harry covered her hand with his own, feeling the steady beat of her pulse beneath his fingers. "It doesn't have to be the last. I can visit—"
"Harry." She silenced him by pressing a finger to his lips. "Don't make promises you might not be able to keep."
The sadness in her voice cut deeper than it should have. Harry caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "I'll try to keep you safe. The wards I placed—"
"Will protect my pub, yes. But what about protecting my heart?"
Harry had no answer for it—couldn't tell her that his heart belonged to ghosts and memories, to people who were already dead in one timeline and might die in this one too.
Instead, he kissed her.
It was meant to be gentle, reassuring, but Rosmerta responded with a hunger that caught him off guard. Her arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer as she pressed herself against him. When she moaned softly against his lips, Harry felt something crack in his chest.
"Upstairs," she whispered against his mouth. "Now."
Harry let her lead him up the narrow staircase to her room, his mind split between the warmth of her touch and the cold calculation of what he was doing. He cared for her—genuinely cared—but he was also using her. The connection, the safe harbor, the cover story... all of it served his larger purpose.
Does that make me a monster? he wondered as she turned to face him in her bedroom, her eyes dark with want and something that might have been love.
The answer, he knew, was probably yes. But monsters, he'd learned, sometimes protected the things that mattered most.
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