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The Headmaster's office was a place of quiet, chaotic wonder. The circular room was filled with the gentle whirring and puffing of a hundred strange, silver instruments. On the walls, the portraits of Hogwarts' former headmasters and headmistresses were not silent observers; they were a gallery of busybodies, their painted eyes following Hermione's every move, their whispered, gossipy comments a constant, rustling murmur in the air.
"Is that the one?" a portly, red-nosed wizard whispered from his frame. "The Granger girl? The one who dealt with Quirrell?"
"Looks rather small to have killed a professor," a stern-looking witch sniffed.
Hermione did her best to ignore them, a muscle twitching in her jaw.
"One moment, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said without looking up from the mountain of paperwork on his desk. "Just a few Ministry documents to sign."
She nodded and began to wander around the room, her eyes taking in the myriad of magical curiosities. Then, she saw him. Perched on a golden stand near Dumbledore's desk was a large, blood-red bird. It looked ancient, weary, and distinctly unwell, its feathers patchy and dull as it listlessly plucked at its own chest. But even in its state of decay, it radiated an aura of immense, benevolent power.
Hermione reached out a hesitant hand, and a single, brilliant scarlet feather detached itself and drifted down into her palm. Her grimoire buzzed softly.
[Magical Creatures]
Phoenix (Collected)
Reborn from ashes. Tears possess immense healing and detoxification properties.
"I imagine you know what he is," Dumbledore's voice said. He had finished his paperwork and was now watching her, his expression gentle.
"A phoenix," Hermione breathed, her voice full of a genuine awe. "I never thought I'd see one in person."
"This is Fawkes," Dumbledore said, a deep affection in his voice. "He has been a companion to my family for a very long time. He is nearing his Burning Day, which is why he looks a bit under the weather. Soon, he will burst into flame and be reborn from the ashes, young and strong again."
He spoke of this fiery death as if it were as natural as the changing of the seasons. Hermione listened patiently, a strange sense of privilege washing over her as the old man shared this small, personal piece of his life.
Finally, he gestured to a file on his desk. "I believe you met our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor in Diagon Alley. I was hoping for your assessment."
Hermione picked up the file. Inside was a glossy, glamorous photo of Gilderoy Lockhart, his teeth gleaming, his forget-me-not blue robes perfectly pressed. The resume was a ludicrously long list of self-proclaimed, unbelievable achievements.
She considered her words carefully. "Well, Headmaster," she said, her tone diplomatic, "he is… a very gifted storyteller."
A deep, rumbling chuckle came from Dumbledore. "A most accurate and generous assessment," he said. "Frankly, the man is a fraud. His fame is built on a foundation of stolen stories and the Memory Charms he used on the real heroes. He is utterly unqualified to teach. And yet, I hired him."
Just as I thought, Hermione mused. You needed a disposable fool to fill a cursed position.
"He was reluctant, of course," Dumbledore continued, his eyes twinkling. "Worried his… secrets might be exposed. But the moment I mentioned he would have the honor of teaching the great Harry Potter, his vanity won out. He took the bait immediately."
"So," Hermione asked, getting to the point, "you called me here to discuss the faculty's questionable hiring practices?"
"Of course not," Dumbledore said, his smile widening. "I called you here to ask for your help. The Lockhart problem, you see, has created a vacancy." He slid a crisp, official-looking piece of parchment across the desk.
Hermione's blood ran cold. She had a sudden, terrible feeling of foreboding. She picked up the document. It was a formal letter of employment.
Her eyes scanned the elegant script. "We are pleased to invite Miss Hermione Jane Granger to accept the position of Assistant Teacher for the Defense Against the Dark Arts course at Hogwarts, to assist Professor Lockhart in his pedagogical duties…"
She didn't finish. She dropped the letter on the desk as if it were on fire and took three quick steps back. "Absolutely not," she said, her voice sharp with alarm. "No. Thank you, but no."
She knew the position was cursed. Voldemort had seen to that. Anyone who took the job was doomed to last no more than a year. She was not about to walk willingly into that trap.
Dumbledore, however, looked genuinely surprised. "It seems you know more than you let on, Miss Granger. How did you deduce the nature of the curse?"
Hermione's mind raced. She couldn't tell him she'd read about it in a book from another dimension. She needed a plausible lie. "I… I can sense magical auras," she bluffed, hoping it sounded convincing. "I saw a dark, lingering aura around Professor Quirrell's head all last year. And when I saw Professor Lockhart in the bookstore, he had the same dark cloud hanging over him. I concluded that the position itself must be cursed."
Dumbledore's eyes widened with what looked like genuine amazement. "Your magical talents never cease to astonish me," he said. "And you are correct. Years ago, when Tom Riddle was refused the post, he placed a powerful jinx upon it. No teacher has ever lasted more than a year since."
"Then why are you asking me to take it?" she demanded, her voice full of an indignant anger.
"Do not worry," Dumbledore said with a calming smile. "I would never place one of my students in such danger. The curse is very specific. It applies only to the official, full Professor. It has no power over a mere assistant." He paused, his eyes twinkling with a new, sharp light. "And I seem to recall you agreeing to a certain condition when you accepted the Philosopher's Stone."
Checkmate.
Hermione stared at him, a feeling of grudging, horrified respect dawning in her mind. He had been planning this all along. He had outmaneuvered her completely.
"Lockhart is a buffoon," she said, her voice a low growl of capitulation. "He can't teach them anything. You need someone to actually do the job. I understand that. But why me?"
"I will admit, I was hesitant at first," Dumbledore explained. "I knew you had the knowledge. And after your duel with Quirrell, I knew you had the power. But I was unsure if you had the maturity, the control. But then," he said, his gaze becoming serious, "I heard about your… unscheduled trip on the Hogwarts Express. To Apparate, once, is a feat for a student. To do so twice, in quick succession, while carrying two other people, in mid-air, and to do it flawlessly… that is a display of magical control far beyond that of an average adult wizard. At that moment, I knew. You are more than capable of teaching any student in this school."
He gave her a final, disarming smile. "As for your… unlicensed use of Apparition, do not worry. I will have a quiet word with the Ministry. It will be taken care of."
Hermione let out a long, slow sigh of defeat. She, the master manipulator, had been played like a fiddle from the very beginning. From the night in the final chamber, this had been his plan.
"Fine," she said, her voice a low grumble. "I'll do it."
She knew she had no choice. She had taken his gifts; she had to pay the price. And besides, she was a little curious. Teaching a class full of HYDRA agents was one thing. But teaching a class full of actual, aspiring wizards? It might even be… fun.
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