Transatlantic: The Yank Professor (HP SI)

[Caramelo]

I've never written fanfiction before. So please consider that when offering constructive criticism. This one's a self-insert, but we're pretending I'm completely clueless about the HP universe. I'm not some teenager or child either; I'm an adult, landing a gig teaching DADA in year 5. And, of course, I'm bringing my own baggage along for the ride.

***

The Leaky Cauldron was oddly the go-to spot for covert rendezvous, even though it served as a gateway to Diagon Alley.
Honestly, it was more a relic from the days when wizards thought those pointy hats were cool than a cozy inn. And there was Tom the barman with one eyebrow up, like he's the only wizard who's got it together.

Now, most folks wouldn't have a clue about a magical trap, even if it hit 'em like a Bludger. But me? My eyes are sharper than thestral teeth. The protective enchantments surroundin' the Leaky Cauldron; now those are something. Anyone daft enough to step where they shouldn't finds themselves trapped in a twisted dance of teleporting doors, each one leadin' to another empty room, stretchin' on and on until Tom decides to set 'em free.

My game of magical detective was interrupted when it felt like a sack of galleons had crash-landed on my shoulder. Or, more accurately, the barman's owl.

"Alright, alright," I mutter, "I'll give up the peepin'." The bird gives me this look, as if I had told it I was a squib. Then it fluffs up, gettin' cozy like it's bookin' a room.

"Makin' yourself at home, huh?" I whisper to the owl.

"Blimey, you've got yourself some luck with my Seraphina," Tom interjects with a hearty chuckle from behind the bar. "Most folks who dare to snoop 'round our defenses get the right proper scare. But it looks like she's taken a liking' to you, mate."

His eyes crease with mischief as he adds, "We must capture this moment; there is no doubt about it. Mind if I do the honors?"

Before I can even blink, he snatches up this old camera and snaps a picture faster than I can say, "Wait." Out pops a moving photo of me, and the flash prompts his owl to hoot in my ear.

"I'm Nathaniel Ashcroft, and I, uh, have an appointment for an interview with Mr. Dumbledore. You must be Tom, the landlord and barman of the Leaky? Dumbledore told me about you."

"Aye, Dumbledore warned me 'bout your arrival and shared a right proper description of your mug as well. A bit early, ain't ya? No worries, I'll gladly lead the way to the room where you'll be havin' your meetin'."

He shoos Seraphina off my shoulder and back to her original perch. We start makin' our way through this crowd of chatterin' patrons. As we pass a table, this striped tabby cat jumps down and starts trailin' us, like it's got some mighty important mission or somethin'. Peering more closely, I realize it's none other than ol' McGonagall on the prowl. Bless her heart; she probably ain't got a clue who I am. I can't blame her, can I? I mean, during my exchange year, I was a puff, and my performance in her transfiguration class was, uh, nothin' worth writin' home about. I flash a grin and turn to face Tom, my eyebrows raised in mock admiration.

"Hey, I've gotta give you props; that's a mighty slick kitty you've got there. You could make her the star attraction of this place, you know? Imagine all those wizard parents lining up to buy grub just 'cause their little rugrats want to snuggle up to that four-legged diva."

He seemingly considers my suggestion before offering an unsure grunt. McGonnagal's ears, uh, do this little twitchy thing a couple times. A door at the back of the establishment swings wide open, unveilin' a set of creaky stairs leadin' down into the dark. Tom whips out one of those deluminator thingies and sparks it up, releasing a teeny-tiny glowin' orb that hangs there, weirdly still in the air. And what did we find? Another dinin' area, but this time the walls are plastered with ancient photographs of past customers. My brow furrows as I catch the barman stashin' my own likeness into his robe. Well, that raised a few questions in my mind. Let me tell ya.

He grins at me and says, "You know, there are some customers who just leave me with this good feeling, you know? And this is how I choose to remember 'em."

Most of 'em' are just a bunch of forgettable faces. But tucked away in the corner, I find a snapshot of yours truly and Frank Longbottom. See, Frank, bein' a prefect, took it upon himself to show me the ropes in Diagon Alley when I first arrived. Our school books are scattered 'round in the foreground, but they're clearly takin' a backseat to what's really on our minds: food. I'm turned away from the camera, almost hidin' my face, but you can see the mouthwaterin' plate of carbonara I chowed on that day. And there's Frank, flashin' a genuine smile at the camera.

"Yeah, reconnecting is definitely on my radar now," I mumble, my voice slipping out almost inadvertently.

The sticking charm keeps the original photo firmly attached to the wall, but no worries, right? I tap the picture with a rhythm, tracing the edges, and a copy peels away from the surface. I casually slip it into my pocket and then turn to McGonagall. Both she and Tom had been observing me keenly.

"Alright, uh, listen up, Kitty McWhiskers. I need to know the scoop. Are you gonna revert to your human form and team up with Headmaster Dumbledore for the interview, or are you gonna keep it, like, cool, and just embrace your inner feline vibes? No pressure, just curious, you know?"

McGonagall's ears perk up, and her feline facade melts away like a chocolate frog left out in the sun, revealing her human self. Ah, the signs of her displeasure are clear. The covert operative within her couldn't help but feel the sting of bein' outmaneuvered.

"Mr. Ashcroft, the primary concern of the Hogwarts faculty has always been the education and safety of our young witches and wizards. Therefore, as you are a prospective teacher, I've been closely observing you to gain a deeper insight into your personality and character. Threats to our security, both within Hogwarts and across the wizarding world, have underscored the need to prioritize their safety over privacy."

"I'd feel more at ease if you'd just come out and ask me to chug some veritaserum instead of prowling around. Next time, try being blunt if you catch my drift. And let's be real, it's only because of past snafus by your boss that my application is being considered now. I mean, who gives a dang about their haircut before facing a banshee? It's like shining your shoes and then jumping into a bog. I could smell the fraud from New York, buddy."

Her critical gaze shifts into an expression of recognition, followed by distaste. "You are that exchange student from Ilvermorny who attended my class in '70. Describing your performance for that term as lacking would be an overstatement."

"Seriously? That's your angle?" I scoff, "For my NEWTS, I was top of the class in charms and did okay in transfiguration. Your ability to accommodate different learning styles is about as narrow as your interest in topics outside of transfiguration. But circling back, past Defense Against the Dark Arts instructors... I'm starting to think I've got more mojo in my pinky toe than some of them had in their entire wand arm. I mean, one of them comes back from sabbatical as the DADA professor after a long stint teaching No-maj Studies, only to kick the bucket from a self-inflicted burning curse."

"Charms is not transfiguration, and Ilvermorny does not hold a candle to Hogwarts," she counters firmly. "Furthermore, your demeanor lacks the requisite professionalism for a teaching position here, and your understanding of pedagogy leaves much to be desired. While it is true that your practical experience caught the Headmaster's attention, and he will likely hire you for it, I find myself unable to offer a warm welcome. Your behavior has left little room for pleasantries, I'm afraid. I trust Albus has taken your shortcomings into account and will establish appropriate expectations for the upcoming term that you will follow to maintain your employment. If you wish to have professional relationships with the rest of the faculty, I strongly recommend cultivating a modicum of tact. Farewell, Mr. Ashcroft."

I lost track of her after she stiffly ascended to the ground floor. Can you believe her reaction to my light-hearted jabbing? But hey, there is no need for me to get all riled up about McGonagall. The barman was the truly irritating of the pair, giving me the once-over instead of just minding his own business. Like, the fracas between me and the transfiguration mistress ain't none of your concern, buddy!

I gotta admit, I was kinda thrown off when he led us straight for what seemed like a broom closet, but I went along with it anyway because it was a discreet place to tell him off. Boy, was I in for a surprise. Inside, sitting on a rickety bar stool was another Tom, puffing away on a pipe. He shoots me a cheeky grin and talks to his twin like it's no big deal.

"So, Albus, how did he measure up?"

The guy next to me is suddenly swishin' and flickin' his wand in a complex series of movements. Next thing, his face melts away, and bam! Albus Dumbledore is there instead. I'm left reelin a bit'. Talk about mind-flippin' spectacle. And Dumbledore? Oh, he just carries on chattin' like he didn't just hear me diss his staffing choices.

"Ah, my dear friend, the practical evaluation has been quite revealing. While Mr. Ashcroft's performance had its flaws, it certainly deserves commendation." Reading Dumbledore's expression is like tryin' to crack a safe, but there's a hint of regret there.

"I must offer my sincerest apologies, Mr. Ashcroft, for the subterfuge. Professor McGonagall's somber depiction of our society is unfortunately accurate. The essence of British wizarding society has been rattled, and we are witnessing the resurgence of dangerous forces. The staff are taking every precaution to ensure the safety of our students."

"You mean that dude with the name that sounds like a fungus and his crew of skull cronies?

 

[Caramelo]

Update 5/1/2024

I got my computer back, so I will resume uploading new chapters once or twice a week.

Best Regards,

Caramelo

Hello folks,

For those who are watching my work, I'm very grateful for your interest and I thank you sincerely.

I'll begin with the good news: I have already written the second chapter and have started on the third. Unfortunately, I cannot release the second chapter to you yet as the laptop it was saved on suddenly quit. The technician who it is with assured me none of the files are lost, but that he will need as many as 14 days to replace a couple components.

So, I have resolved to write all the way up until chapter 5 or 6 these next couple weeks and as soon as I get it back I will release these en-masse.

Best Regards,

Caramelo

 

[Caramelo]

Despite not having the original second chapter back from my computer that is still getting serviced in the shop, I have decided to post this instead because it introduces some characters and still works chronologically. We will catch back up with the yank in the next chapter.


On the Other Side of the Pond

***

On a sunny August morning, Ava Lundgren approached the imposing entryway of MACUSA headquarters. She briefly glanced over her shoulder to ensure the No-Maj passersby weren't paying her any mind before stepping up to the threshold. As she did so, dozens dazedly turned away from the building. Smirking, she casually tapped her wand against the owl engraved on the bronze doorway. A floating golden hearing trumpet materialized at eye level, and a pleasant-sounding voice emanated from the device:

"Thank you for visiting MACUSA headquarters. What is your name and purpose, dear guest?"

"Ava Lundgren. I was invited for an interview with the DCI."

"One moment, please."

Ava's face twisted in mild irritation as an annoyingly catchy No-Maj tune blasted from the ear trumpet.

🎶He's a smooth operator
🎶Smooth operator
🎶Smooth operator

Just as she begrudgingly began to enjoy the music and sway to its rhythm, the song abruptly cut off. The receptionist's voice issued from the trumpet once more:

"Your appointment has been confirmed. To access the 7th floor, where the law enforcement offices are located, please place your wand in the designated container inside elevator A for security screening. Once you arrive, proceed down the corridor lined with portraits of former presidents. At the end, you'll find the guest entrance to the Department of Confiscated Items. Present your admission card to the guard, and he will grant you access. Your wand will be promptly returned to you upon the conclusion of your visit! Thank you for your cooperation, and we wish you a magically delightful time."

Ava scoffed at the poorly faked cheer as she entered the building, breezing past the fancy marble reception area toward the elevator. Inside, she jabbed at the button for the 7th floor a couple of times to no avail. Sighing irritably, she followed the voice's instructions and dropped her wand into the lone container fixed to the wall. Moments later, the same button shimmered with a golden glow, and this time the elevator ascended obediently after she pressed it.

Upon arriving on the 7th floor, she was met with a line of peculiar machines. This mix and match between the magical and No-Maj worlds was absurd. First, the odd music from the ear trumpet; now these turnstile things? Observing a wizard navigate them successfully on the far side of the room, she mimicked his actions. The device spat out a plastic square that she assumed was her admission card. Gingerly taking it, she felt mildly relieved when she was allowed through to the other side.

"They've ramped up the security measures after a recent incident," stated a voice. The wizard she had watched earlier was now standing a short distance away. He was looking at her with an amused expression.

"I had no clue that bureaucracies get their kicks from making things needlessly complicated," was her response, but he didn't catch her sarcasm.

"Okay, here's the scoop – those guards at the office entrances? They've got these special gloves. When they shake your hand, those gloves do a quick check. If your profile doesn't match the details on your admission card, they magically heat up. It's a clever way to surreptitiously keep the wrong people out of restricted areas. Oh, and if someone steals or tampers with one, it will transfigure into a squirrel and give 'em a vicious nip before running off. Altogether, it's a pretty good system."

"That's... sort of interesting, I guess."

"I actually feel bad for the security staff; the gloves don't work properly unless they remain impeccably clean, so they have to cast sanitation and exfoliation spells on themselves every thirty minutes. After double shifts, their hands are quite raw."

"Cool." She genuinely didn't care. After an uncomfortable pause, the guy briskly left to continue with his previous business.

As Ava entered the corridor mentioned by the receptionist, she half-listened to the presidents bickering about their respective legacies. Mostly dull ramblings, her interest sparked at the lone female portrait: 'Seraphina Piquery, President from 1920 to 1928'. Captivatingly beautiful, she regarded the others with wry amusement.

Arriving at the entrance to the DCI, she promptly shook the hand of a balding, tired-looking guard and handed over her admission card. He gave her a small bow and politely gestured for her to enter.

Strolling into the DCI offices, Ava's gaze lazily drifted over the walls adorned in rich mahogany paneling, each etched with elegant runes and sigils that emitted an almost imperceptible glow. The impressive atmosphere was shattered by the two attendants bickering at the front desk.

The animated one had a touch of extra weight and a slightly crooked nose, like he'd been hit by a bludger and didn't bother with seeing a mediwitch. His glasses and neatly trimmed beard added to his serious look. Meanwhile the other guy was calm and sported a faint smile, his tousled hair perfectly matching his relaxed attitude.

"Stop this charade," beard and glasses snapped. "You knew that food was mine, yet you shamelessly ate it."

His colleague nonchalantly leaned back in his chair, twirling a quill in his fingers.

"Oh, you mean that delicious-looking sandwich and perfectly arranged fruit salad? My bad, I didn't realize they were off-limits."

"This is a serious issue! You've shattered the trust that's crucial for our teamwork—"

He suddenly fell silent when he noticed his unbothered colleague nodding towards Ava.

"We'll continue this conversation later." He swiveled to face her.

"Are you Ava Lundgren? Your interview was scheduled to commence," he glanced at his watch with pointed emphasis, "one minute ago."

"Sorry, I got caught up making plans to overthrow MACUSA. But since I'm here now, I guess I'll settle for this interview instead."

He leveled a firm stare at her. "I am Dirk Iron, Interim Supervisor of this department. It's time to buckle down or be shown the door. Unlike the soft coddling at Ilvermorny, the real world demands grit and discipline. Are we clear?"

"Interim supervisor, huh? Sounds like a real power move."

"I won't repeat myself twice. Am I clear?" He asked, his jaw tight with tension.

"Whoa, take it easy. I'm on the same page," Ava soothed.

Rising from his chair, he strode towards a nearby door, motioning for her to follow with a sharp nod. She waited until he had completely turned away before rolling her eyes. Meanwhile, the guy still behind the desk appeared to be buried in his paperwork, but the faint twitch in his shoulders gave away his amusement.

They entered an open-floor office with enchanted parchment planes darting overhead, carrying messages between the more distant desks. Ava picked up on a snippet of conversation:

"Got any idea what to do with the load of chupacabra skulls we nabbed from that Arizona ranch last week?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe we should divvy 'em up among the accredited dealers. Could help ease the strain on our anti-poaching efforts, don't you think?"

Entering a drab room tucked away in a corner, they found themselves in a mostly empty office with minimal decoration. The only furnishings in sight were a decrepit desk and chair. The scene would have been entirely mundane if not for the heap of quills piled atop the desk. She looked skeptically at them.

"I spy with my eagle eye that raised brow, Missy. Your task is to organize this mess within a 30-minute timeframe. From where I stand, what truly matters is if you can handle the work. This is my test to assess your suitability for the internship, sans pointless chatter or fake pleasantries."

"You guys must be looking for someone willing to dive into the thrilling world of stationery logistics." Without missing a beat, she started sifting through them.

Iron squinted at his watch, meticulously noting the time. "Negative on the stationery logistics, but the internship does involve sorting and research. There's a taco stand outside the building. I'll return post-taco acquisition. Do not leave this room while I'm gone."

She casually waved him away, "I'll try not to enjoy myself too much, but no promises."

He left with a scowl, and Ava resumed her sorting, meticulously arranging them by color, length, and weight. Scribbling with a few that felt odd in her grip, she found they were blood quills and promptly set them aside, unfazed by the grim discovery. Twenty minutes later, she had finished.

Iron returned shortly after to the sight of her casually sprawled on her back, hands behind her head. He held a brown paper baggie that wafted the irresistible scent of Mexican food.

"I will make you an offer: one of these tacos in exchange for upholding proper decorum and sitting at the desk."

"I'll do it for two," she countered firmly.

The man pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation before handing them over. Taking another taco from the bag, he ate it carefully over the table, examining her work closely.

"You show some promise. Your performance was acceptable, and you even managed to differentiate the blood quills. Beginning next week, you'll officially join the team."

A few seconds later, a pair of dragon-skin gloves were tossed at her, and she deftly caught them. The guy had clearly never played as chaser in a quidditch match.

"So, what thrilling organizational task are you assigning me that requires dragon-skin gloves?"

Iron flashed her a slightly manic grin.

"Picture this: two storage rooms crammed with nearly 400 temperamental wands between them, ready to detonate due to years of neglect. This collection is the result of more than a century of sloppy confiscations by the DMLE. Your task: categorize them by wood and core type and track down the names of their original owners by cross-referencing arrest records and customer data from the Big Four. The end result: Some wands will be returned to their rightful owners or heirs; a few will be saved for historical purposes; and the rest? They'll be snapped, with their components recycled. Safety is key, so don't fret as I'll also provide gloves, goggles, hearing protection, and burn paste."

"Ugh, how am I supposed to figure out the cores of these crusty old wands? Like, I'm not an expert or anything."

"The Jonker family have kindly lent us a house-elf to educate you on wand matters. Despite his incompatible magic, they swear he has some bizarre knack for communicating with them or something like that. He's lurking about somewhere. Let me summon him: GRITSBY—"

A sharp crack filled the room, announcing the arrival of a slender, diminutive figure: Gritsby. He carefully surveyed his surroundings, acknowledging Ava with a slight dip of his chin before directing his gaze towards Iron. His eyes displayed pronounced bags, and a banana-print loincloth hinted at a level of individuality rarely seen in house-elves.

"Introduce yourself and give Miss Lundgren a quick rundown of your skills." the house-elf perked up at the request, clearing his throat before launching into an introduction:

"I'm Gritsby, da house-elf, wand talk's where I shine,
Smooth chats I got, ain't no need to rewind.
With coffee in hand, I'll flex my finesse,
Gritsby's top-notch, won't settle for less!"

Ava had never encountered a one that enjoyed speaking in rhyme.

"Uh, Gritsby, nice to meet you. I didn't realize we had a poet in the house... elf. That's unexpected," she finished, before remembering their sensitivity and quickly tacking on, "Unexpectedly beautiful, I mean."

The house-elf made this drawn-out, contented noise that seemed to last forever. When he finally stopped, she gave him an alarmed glance before quickly switching to a topic she actually cared about.

"How much will I be getting paid?"

"Your wage will be right in line with public sector norms: 13 dragots per hour. Considering the potential for being caught in blasts of extreme heat or other elemental effects, your insurance package will be substantial."

"Not at all shabby," she mused aloud.

"You're not merely collecting a paycheck; you'll be acquiring another valuable asset if you perform your duties with excellence. My official recommendation holds substantial weight and has the power to unlock numerous doors for you. Understand the significance of this opportunity."

"Yeah, that's cool," Ava responded flatly, her disinterest evident. "Thanks, I guess. This wand business will probably take me, like, a month or two tops. What am I doing after?"

"You can stay on as my assistant if you meet performance expectations for this current task."

"Ugh, fine, I'll go with it, but only if I'm getting paid the same rate, Mr. Interim Supervisor."

Iron's jaw tensed, and with a controlled exhale, he pivoted around, deciding to collect the rest of the protective equipment without delay.

 

[Caramelo]

This chapter takes us back to the Leaky Cauldron, where Dumbledore interviews the SI for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.

***

Albus Dumbledore gave me this faintly pinched expression.

"While I appreciate your attempt at levity, Mr. Ashcroft, it's essential to approach such matters with the seriousness they demand. I'm not suggesting you refer to him as the 'dark lord', or the ever-tiresome 'you-know-who', but underestimating Lord Voldemort and his followers would be a grave error."

His face hinted that arguing wasn't worth the hassle, so I threw him a bone to keep things chill.

"These dark folks always got the weirdest names, but sure, if I come across any of 'em, I'll tread lightly."

The barman made his leave, and Dumbledore gestured for me to sit on the vacated stool before conjuring his own.

"Shall we proceed with the interview?" This cramped spot has me nearly swallowing cobwebs with every breath, and I swear my clothes are going to reek of mothballs until next week. But hey, I've faced more uncomfortable situations than this, so I just give a nod.

"Firstly, I must insist on your solemn assurance that your ties to MACUSA will not jeopardize the safety of our students or faculty, nor impede your ability to fulfill the responsibilities of the Defense Against the Dark Arts post."

He leaned forward as he finished speaking, and his eyes had a steely resolve. I took my time thinking, letting the quiet stretch out before speaking up.

"Recently, things went kind of sideways, and I got this time off to catch my breath. But considerin' the eyes on me, they're savvy enough to spot what ain't worth their time. Attackin' me at Hogwarts is just callin' down heat they ain't interested in. You catchin' my drift?"

Dumbledore adjusted his spectacles, seeming to relax just a tad.

"Truth shines faintly in your eyes, and that shall suffice for now. Your résumé paints a picture of an adaptable wizard. Could you elaborate on your time with MACUSA? My sources within the organization have praised your abilities, though with their customary secrecy shrouding the particulars."

"You see, the thing is I'm always jugglin' various gigs; the departments pass me around because I got a cool head and I'm not one to complain. Once, the Body for Protection of Magical Species sent me to this Orlando mall to handle an 'evolving crisis'. There, I stumbled upon these weird bird-snake critters occamies? occami? gettin' all cozy above the parking lot while the no-maj went bananas. First time doin' obliviation work in the field, you know? I almost nailed it, but I accidentally wiped out this kid's self-esteem. Thinkin' quick on my feet, I patched it up by implanting the idea that he's some sort of track star. I checked back in on him recently; it turns out he snagged a silver medal in the no-maj Olympics."

My potential boss sported an amused expression. "Other Muggles have suffered far graver consequences from their inadvertent brushes with our world. Pray tell—in which event did he happen to secure victory?"

"That pole-vaultin' thing, y'know? They jump crazy high with a stick or somethin'. I've takin' some heat for my call, but the guy's really pullin' it off."

"Thank you for sharing that delightful story, Mr. Ashcroft. Might I trouble you to delve into another event from your employment history that illustrates the breadth of your capabilities?"

"Yeah, so last fall, I was dragged into this rescue op for a cursed animagus who couldn't shift back to human form. I can't spill all the beans, but instead of morphin' into a cat or somethin' regular, his animal form was this rare flamingo breed. His cousin, fresh outta jail, sold him to some muggle zoo and tried to swap the money he received for dragots. We caught wind of it, got the guy out, and tossed his cousin back in MACUSA lockup. The curse was broken, and we became buds. Oh, and check this out; I got a snapshot of us right here—"

I slip the picture out of my wallet, turning it towards Dumbledore. There's me and Evan, just chilling at this wizard bar, firewhisky in hand. I take a quick trip down memory lane, then hastily tuck it back because we're acting pretty hammered. For a moment there, it's like you can almost see the gears turning in the old guy's noggin, like one of those fancy bullet trains those Japanese no-maj got. Then he shoots me this nod, like he's cracked the code.

"I am persuaded that your talents would be of great use in our effort to safeguard the Hogwarts student body. And your grasp of the Muggle world? Undoubtedly handy. But, before I give the official stamp of approval on your employment, there's a couple of pressing matters we need to square away."

"I'm all for layin' your cards on the table before makin' any moves." I couldn't believe how short this interview was shaping up to be. My surprise was nearly spilling over.

"Very well. The Defense Against the Dark Arts position is afflicted with a curse, cast by Lord Voldemort when I refused him the role many years ago, before he took on that name. As a result, anyone who assumes the post is magically compelled to relinquish it at the end of each spring term. I would advise you to establish a stringent teaching regimen from the outset. This shall afford you the opportunity to depart the castle at your own discretion toward the end of the academic year, rather than being overtaken by the curse."

That sure cleared a lot up. I'm not aiming to stick around beyond a year, so the information isn't exactly rattling my cage. I was curious about poking around to see if I could break it, but that's something I'm not going to share with the headmaster. I meet his eyes again.

"Yeah, I'm cool with preppin' for a quick getaway. This job's just a means to pocket some galleons, you know? Once the year's up, I'm outta here. Rome's been on my mind lately. My ex used to talk it up, and I'm sort of itchin' to shoot the breeze with the spirits of the Colosseum."

"I firmly endorse the notion that every witch and wizard ought to venture to Rome at least once in their lifetime. The ancient city holds profound significance in the annals of magical history. Now, onto our next order of business: for this academic term, Hogwarts will likely be graced with the presence of a Ministry official, Dolores Umbridge. Ms. Umbridge will assume an advisory role, casting her discerning eye over our curriculum and offering suggestions for its refinement. Truth be told, her considerable expertise as a disciplinarian and bureaucrat is sorely wasted with this detour to Hogwarts. I conveyed this sentiment to the Minister, but he remains firm in his decision to place her at the school."

It took me a minute to suss out what the Headmaster was really getting at: there's a serious public spat going on between him and Cornelius Fudge, and this is Dumbledore cluing me in that the Prime Minister's throwing his attack dog into the mix. He interpreted my silence as a green light to keep talking.

"Clearly, neither she nor the Minister anticipated you; until your correspondence reached me, applicants were few and far between. They were quite surprised when I informed them of your imminent assumption of the position. You will appreciate knowing that Ms. Umbridge intends to graciously offer you her assistance with crafting lesson plans for the fall term."

These muppets at the British Ministry clearly hadn't bothered looking me up if they figured to order me around. But hold up, that other thing he mentioned? Now that's got my attention.

"So, what you're sayin' is that this whole deal today wasn't actually an interview, just some kinda gettin'-to-know-me thing?"

Dumbledore let out a sort of contemplative hum. "So long as the self-portrait you sketched in your application aligned with my observations today, you were guaranteed the job."

I've been played, but hey, I ended up in the right spot, didn't I? No need to gripe about the means when the end's mostly in my favor. I took a good, long squint at Albus Dumbledore.

"I have a feelin' I'm going to be dealin' with a lot more than a normal teacher, so before I commit to this ride, I've got a couple conditions. You're goin' to toss me an extra fifty galleons each month, and we're closin' this charade with a visit to Fortescue's, your treat."

"Certainly," he replied smoothly. "I can easily convince the Board of Governors to raise your wage slightly, given your extensive experience in law enforcement. As for your second request, given this uncomfortably warm August day, I find it difficult to refuse. However, I must insist on selecting the flavor of your ice cream."

***

My new boss and I were hanging outside Fortescue's ice cream joint, both chomping on lemon sherbet cones. I half-listened as the headmaster talked about recently getting booted from being top dog at the Wizengamot.

My mind was mostly on a whole other wavelength: why call it lemon sherbet candy but switch it up to sherbet lemon for the ice cream version?

"And what, may I inquire, are your thoughts on the flavor?"

Dumbledore piped up, yanking me back from my thoughts. I looked up and saw there wasn't much left of his cone—just a few drips on his fingers. He was dabbing them off real careful with his napkin.

"It was alright, I reckon. I might give it another shot someday, but there are flavors I'm way more into. Passion fruit's my jam."

"I'll consult with the house-elves to see if they might consider offering the flavor next time ice cream is served in the Great Hall."

"Thanks, that'd be pretty cool, actually."

Dumbledore bundled up our trash into a neat little pile, making it easier for the shop owner to clean up, then cleared his throat before switching gears.

"This outing has been quite pleasant, and I am truly delighted to have you as part of our staff. Minerva and I shall ensure the castle is prepared to welcome you as a professor, with all the attendant privileges. In the days to come, we'll organize a special staff gathering for your introduction to the rest of our faculty. However, before we part ways today, there's a matter that has sparked my curiosity."

I grunted quizzically.

"You've not voiced your thoughts or shown any curiosity about the events of the Triwizard Tournament from the previous year. Most individuals would have seized the opportunity to discuss the topic with me."

"Have you forgotten we've been choppin' it up 'bout my time in government all mornin'? Your ministry's utter disinterest in pokin' around the boy's death says a whole lot. Just like the Book of Admittance at Hogwarts keeps tabs on every magical kid born in this country, there's this thing called the Corpse Chronicle, which logs all autopsies done for or by the government. Soon as I touched down on this island, I pulled some strings to get access and check if Diggory's name came up."

"Most astute. I have consulted that very same tome myself in preparation for Wizengamot trials. May I ask what conclusion you reached?"

I let out a scoff, louder than intended. "When the minister and his crew squawk 'bout their third task as the reason the kid bit the dust, and it comes out they couldn't be bothered to autopsy his body, it's like they're yellin', 'We're a bunch of halfwits!' for the entire wizarding world to hear. If admittin' that the dark times are back is like crossin' a busy street, they've opted to throw themselves under the wheels of the Knight Bus instead."

The older wizard gave a meaningful nod and got to his feet, flicking away a lone crumb from his robes.

"I am deeply thankful for your candor today. This year, I am relying on you to prepare the students to the best of your ability. With Lord Voldemort's return, we are facing a crucial juncture in this country. They must be equipped to withstand the rising tide. I would not see them washed away."

This old timer was really pouring on the metaphors. "I wouldn't do anythin' less. The kiddos will be learnin' how to survive and thrive."

I got up too, making sure to briefly turn away from Dumbledore as I considered my next stop.

"I advise you prioritize building a strong rapport with Minerva, both for the benefit of the students and your own well-being. Farewell, Professor Ashcroft."

I sensed a magical tension brewing in the air before my new boss vanished, his apparition going with a faint whisper instead of the usual pop or crack. I let out a low whistle, admiring the level of control. Now, I was finally in the clear to swing by Ollivander's. I'd hit up his competition, Jimmy Kiddel, earlier today, but that guy was as clueless as they come. He couldn't tell me a lick about my wand.

As I cruised down Diagon Alley, I made a mental note to hit up Twilfit and Tatting for robes later. Eye-rolling past the Daily Prophet offices, I cocked an eyebrow at Ollivander's ancient shopfront, its sign bragging "Since 382 B.C." Hopefully, that meant something. Stepping inside, I immediately sneezed from the dust covering everything, including the portraits of past Ollivanders.

"I'll be with you in just a moment," came a voice from the back. As I waited, that tickle in my nose crept up again. I flicked my wand, smoothly whisking away the dust from the front of the shop with the ol' vanishing spell. This also perked up the magical portraits, some of whom clapped appreciatively.

"Kindly desist from your wand-waving, or I shall find it necessary to escort you out of my establishment, young sir. My stock is quite sensitive."

I swung towards the voice, spotting this tall, bent-over fellow with silver hair, shooting me a disapproving gaze.

"Looks like your old man ain't too bothered," I remarked, giving a vague gesture towards the portraits because I couldn't rightly tell which one was his father.

"That's inconsequential to me, for he was the sort who held the belief that kneazle whiskers made for suitable wand cores. I am Ollivander, a purveyor and craftsman of quality wands. How may I assist you, Mr...?"

"Ashcroft," I smoothly throw out. "I'm here today because I got my hands on this wand a couple months ago. I've been twirlin' it since I lost my old one in a magical tussle. We've been cohabitin' just fine, but I don't know much about her. Mind fillin' me in a bit more?"

"This is a request I don't often receive, but I am prepared to provide such a service for a fee of 15 sickles."

I reach into my pocket, grab the sickles, and smoothly push them across the counter toward Ollivander. He snatches them up in a flash, dropping them into this slotted box that's too small to hold them all. Must be some kind of extension charm deal. His peepers went wide in shock as I handed over my wand. Watching him hold it up to the light, he let out this little gasp.

"Ah, American wandsmiths, ever the inventive souls. Their choices for cores often perplex me, but a select few have chanced upon blends of materials with remarkable power. Thiago Quintana was among those rare artisans. This is one of his creations."

He gives it a solid flick, and his shabby-looking stool shifts into a sleek greyhound. It trots over to me and nudges my leg with its noggin, asking for head pats. I don't waste a second before giving in. After passing my wand back to me, Ollivander kept on with his explanation.

"Quintana's fame stems from his unconventional choices for core material—during his time in North America, he caused quite a commotion by using the spinal columns of juvenile white river monsters. Yet, the wizards of this era have forgotten his Brazilian origins. This wand is from the earliest days of his career, before he was compelled to flee his homeland."

"What had him sweatin'?"

"The man possessed unmatched expertise in capturing magical creatures. Quintana stands alone in magical history as the sole individual to successfully trap a Saci—a shape-shifting trickster djinn. Legend speaks of the creature gleefully surrendering six crimson hairs in exchange for its release. The wands fashioned from these hairs became infamous for their inclination towards curse magic. Soon after, many unsavory characters were knocking at his door."

"You're sure this is one of them?"

"Yes, I'm quite certain. Its wood is from an Araucaria tree, which, as my South American colleagues have informed me, favors resilient wizards. This wand is 12¼ inches in length and noticeably supple."

He paused, peering at me intently. "How, if I may ask, did you come to possess it?"

"Inherited it," I fibbed. The truth is, I swiped it under desperate circumstances from DCI storage over at MACUSA. The employees were spread thin, and they hadn't even glanced at their inventory in ages, so I wasn't losing any sleep over failing to return it. He accepts my answer without further question, and I toss a couple more sickles on the table, saying they're to show my gratitude for his help. The truth is, they're more to ease my conscience for feeding him a lie. We shake hands, and I saunter out of the shop after giving one last head pat to the greyhound. I was feeling mighty pleased about my day. Making my way back to the Leaky Cauldron, I reckon I'll try convincing Tom to rustle up some steak and kidney pie for supper tonight.

*****
AN:

I have decided to only include the accent of the SI within the quotations. His internal monologue will not have the accent for ease of reading.

 

[Caramelo]

I have been preoccupied with family matters, but found the time to get this chapter done. I hope you enjoy.

This chapter takes place on the first day of the fall term.

****
Headmaster's office

The day of the welcoming feast always put Snape on edge. The serene stillness of the empty grounds in the morning was always a jarring contrast to the bustling energy of the arriving students. Walking down the corridor that led to Dumbledore's office, he noticed the gargoyle lifting its head expectantly as he drew near. He muttered the latest of Dumbledore's whimsical, sweet-themed passwords.

"bonbon bliss."

The statue sprang aside, and he briskly ascended the spiral staircase and swept in without bothering to knock. The circular room was bathed in warm noon sunlight, and among the delicate instruments, Snape spotted Fawkes perched regally on his stand. As he entered, the phoenix silently greeted him by lifting his crest of crimson head feathers. Dumbledore glanced up from the papers spread across his desk, offering a wan smile.

"Ah, Severus, I'm grateful for your readiness to meet with me at such short notice. Before we delve into more pressing matters, may I ask if you share my anticipation for the welcoming feast?"

"It's always a pleasure to teach another cohort of numbskull students who think magic can be reduced to mere wand-waving and Latin phrases."

Dumbledore's expression was sincere as he spoke. "It is the duty of older generations to guide the younger ones, steering them away from the pitfalls we once encountered. The students would greatly benefit if you were more proactive in this task."

"I've never had such a crude understanding of magic."

"Indeed," the older man agreed, his gaze seeming to pierce through him and into another realm. "Even as children, you and Lily Evans possessed a unique insight, a comprehension that eludes all but the most discerning minds."

Snape's posture shifted subtly, betraying his discomfort. The headmaster smoothly redirected the conversation. "What news do you have regarding the Department of Mysteries?"

"The Dark Lord's patience with Lucius is dwindling. You should've had the sense to appoint Arthur Weasley to guard duty from the outset. Unlike Podmore, his competency is at least discernible."

"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore gently admonished, "let us refrain from speaking ill of a man who bravely faces six months in Azkaban for the Order's cause. Also, I prefer to avoid putting a married father of seven in harm's way if it can be avoided."

"Then you should have refused him when he asked to join."

"I have always been able to count on you to deliver the unvarnished truth. On this topic, Your directness is a rare gift. Regrettably, with Mr. Podmore's arrest, our small pool of discreet guardians for the hall of prophecy has shrunk even further. It pains me deeply, but I must lean on Arthur for this crucial task."

Snape scoffed. "You sent for me to discuss another individual. Let's not waste our time."

Dumbledore interlaced his fingers. "Today at the staff meeting, you made the acquaintance of our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. What did you make of him?"

"Ashcroft? A buffoon at first glance, but there's a hint of shrewdness that brings Quirrell to mind, despite their vastly different temperaments. I presume you also noticed his limited understanding of the mind arts."

"Ah, yes. He was quite enamored with my beard and forehead during our time together in the Leaky Cauldron. As you know firsthand, skirting direct eye contact hardly poses a challenge for skilled Legilimens. I learned the man has unresolved issues abroad. While he believes they won't follow him across the pond, I can't disregard the possibility."

"Do you expect me to tail him, burdened as I am with all my other responsibilities?" Snape's voice hinted at the onset of simmering anger.

"Not at all. It would be quite a misstep to divert you from your reconnaissance efforts. Instead, Professor Ashcroft has graciously accepted my offer to lodge at the Hog's Head Inn for the term. He is quite pleased with the arrangement, believing it will aid in maintaining his privacy. He's right, in part—it will afford him more privacy from Dolores Umbridge."

"That's a functional strategy," Snape replied, his expression thoughtful.

"Any more of your exceedingly faint praise, Severus, and I might start blushing." The headmaster reached for the little decorative chest resting on the corner of his desk. He opened it to reveal a stash of bright yellow sweets wrapped in transparent cellophane.

"Fancy one?"

****
Platform 9¾

Once their trunks were loaded onto the Hogwarts Express, Hermione bid farewell to Mrs. Weasley and was enveloped in a long, tender hug. The woman then embraced each of her own children before turning to the boy-who-lived.

"Oh, Harry dear," Molly said, her voice trembling. With every farewell, she had become more emotional, and now tears streamed openly down her cheeks.

"Please take care of yourself this year and try your best to steer clear of trouble," she pleaded, her hands grasping his shoulders protectively. "You've become like one of my own." After pressing a kiss to his forehead, she stepped back, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

Harry regarded her with heartfelt gratitude. "Thanks, Mrs. Weasley. I truly appreciate you. Your concern means a ton to me, more than you realize."

The twins exchanged grins as they observed the interaction. "Look who's getting the full Weasley treatment, George. Harry's practically one of us now," Fred remarked.

"Absolutely Fred, but remember, we have a strict policy: only gingers allowed. We can't have a black sheep in the family, can we?"

"Oi, Harry, get over here and let us help you ditch those dark locks. When we're done, Mum will be seeing red in more ways than one."

Through her sniffles, Molly Weasley laughed warmly at her twin's banter, which abruptly ceased when Fred produced a tube. Hermione recognized it as the magical dye she used to conceal a couple of gray hairs.

"Fred and George Weasley! If you actually go through with it, I'll be scouring your room from top to bottom, and any experiments I unearth will meet their fate in the rubbish bin."

Hermione saw George subtly wink at Harry as Molly seized the dye from Fred. The lecture she was about to deliver was preempted by Sirius barking cheerfully and sprinting in lively circles around the pair and Molly. Hermione looked over to see Moody hobbling towards Harry. His magical eye briefly focused on her, and she immediately grasped that his next words were meant for all of them, not just her friend.

"Keep sharp, Potter. Hogwarts isn't a walk in the park. Watch your back, or you'll end up like me—stuck at the bottom of a trunk with some bloody wanker throwing stale bread at you and yanking your hairs with Accio." Moody was understandably still thinking about his captivity, which had only ended three months prior.

"Don't worry sir; I'll make sure to keep my guard up; I'll stay on the lookout." Harry's determination was unmistakable. Mad-Eye gruffly clapped him on the back in approval.

"Moody, you're supposed to be the expert at watching your back, quite literally," Tonks quipped. "Alright then, off you lot go, or you'll miss the train!" Her hair briefly turned pink as she teasingly punched Harry on the shoulder.

At last, it was Sirius's turn. Harry knelt down, his arms encircling his godfather in a tight embrace. Sirius leaned forward on his paws, pressing his wet nose against Harry's collarbone. After a long moment, he withdrew.

"Goodbye, Padfoot," Harry murmured.

With a soft, mournful whine, Sirius turned around and followed the other adults as they made their way off the platform. Molly glanced back, waving a few times, before they all disappeared from view. The twins and Ginny had already boarded the train. As the three of them entered one of the coaches, Hermione considered how she and Ron would be sitting with the other prefects.

The Slytherins were likely to throw a few barbs about her Muggle-born background, but in her four years at Hogwarts, she had become quite adept at shrugging them off. The presence of the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw prefects would temper the worst of it. She got along particularly well with Padma Patil, who had proven herself a reliable study partner amidst all the chaos of the Triwizard Tournament.

Hermione felt a pang of guilt when she realized she had forgotten to inform Harry that she and Ron wouldn't be with him for the duration of the train ride. While she personally viewed it as an excellent opportunity for him to expand his social circle beyond their trio, Hermione knew he wouldn't see it that way. Her musings were interrupted by Crookshanks impatiently hissing from his carrier.

"We should hurry up and find an empty compartment," Harry suggested. Ron looked at her expectantly, signaling that it was Hermione's responsibility to explain.

"We're, um, Ron and I have a meeting with the other prefects, so we'll be sitting with them," Hermione got out. "But don't worry; I'm sure you'll find pleasant company in the meantime. We'll sit together during the feast as usual." Harry glanced between them, in disbelief at the prospect of splitting up.

"Yeah, Neville's around here somewhere. Go sit with him," Ron added casually.

"Oh, yeah, right. See you two later, then." Harry looked a bit demoralized.

After Hermione gave him a reassuring hug and Ron patted him on the shoulder, they left him behind and walked to the next coach. She could sense him staring at their backs as they left. Upon arrival at their destination, she noticed everyone else had already settled in. Draco Malfoy sat by Pansy Parkinson, the two of them talking quietly. She had expected Malfoy to be chosen, considering he was Snape's favorite student, but Parkinson, really? Marcus Turner from Ravenclaw was the only senior prefect there. Also present were Ernie Macmillan, Padma Patil, Hannah Abbot, and Anthony Goldstein.

"Hello, Hermione, Ron," Padma said cheerfully, her tone going into a flatter register when addressing Ron.

"Hello, Padma!" Hermione greeted her back warmly, while Ron merely nodded slightly, avoiding eye contact.

Draco was the next to 'greet' them. "Look who's arrived. It's know-it-all Granger, acting like she's the next Minister for Magic, and Weasley, looking like he's just stumbled upon a knut. You two being appointed as prefects confirms the old man's losing his grip." Parkinson tittered softly.

"If you reckon Dumbledore's off his rocker, what does it say that he chose you as well?" Ron fired back.

Hermione resisted the urge to sigh deeply; they'd been through this routine countless times before. "Ron and I earned our badges through something called merit. It's a concept you might not be acquainted with." Draco rolled his eyes at them, while Parkinson affected a haughty sniff.

Hermione seated herself between Hannah Abbott and Ron, freeing Crookshanks from his carrier to settle comfortably on her lap. The cat expressed his dislike for the lone Slytherin girl by hissing in her direction several times.

"Granger, control your mangy pet."

Hermione didn't respond to her, opting instead to soothe Crookshanks by stroking his fur. Malfoy decided to try for one last jab. "I'm surprised Weasel managed to snag the badge instead of Scarhead. Probably 'cause Potter was on the brink of having his wand snapped. Tell me Granger, did he really break down over Diggory in front of his filthy relatives?"

Hermione and Ron bristled at the slight against their friend. Hannah Abbot also shot a fierce glare at the Slytherins, sparking a flicker of hope in her. Perhaps Harry would have more allies this year. Marcus Turner chose that moment to intervene.

"Oi, enough! We're not here to squabble like first-years. Say another word, and I'll whip up patrol schedules for Gryffindor and Slytherin without asking for your input." Dividing them up was surprisingly straightforward. The boys only cared that they weren't assigned any that conflicted with Quidditch events, while the girls chose the patrols that fit neatly into their schedules.

As they finished up, the door swung open unexpectedly, revealing an adult figure standing at the entrance. He had a clean-shaven appearance, with fair skin marked by a long, thin scar tracing from the left corner of his mouth down to his collarbone. Framed by a tousled mane of golden-blonde hair were a pair of rich hazel eyes. He wore new-looking robes, and around his neck hung a sturdy silver chain necklace etched with runes that caught the light. Hermione immediately recognized a few, such as the Algiz rune for protection and the Uruz rune symbolizing strength.

"Who's this bloke barging in? What's your business here, mate?" Ron's voice held a touch of suspicion as he eyed the newcomer, glancing between Malfoy and him repeatedly.

"Ron, really, think about it. He could have a valid reason for being here, like working for the train or being a staff member. Let's try to show a bit more respect, okay?"

"Got it in one," the man drawled at Hermione before casually plopping down in the seat next to Anthony Goldstein. "I'm Professor Ashcroft, your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Dumbledore's bright idea, this. Said it used to be a thing for new profs to hitch a ride, so here I am. I caught wind of some chatter 'bout a prefect car, thought I'd drop in and shake a few hands."

All of them, save for Malfoy, were visibly taken aback by his twangy American accent. Parkinson shot a questioning look at the blonde.

"My father mentioned Dumbledore brought in a Yank for the defense post. He was absolutely against it, of course. Hogwarts is a British institution." He turned to the professor and said, "If you let our education slide, he'll make sure you're out of a job."

A hush fell over their group at his brazenness, but the professor was unfazed.

"So, your old man is on the Board of Governors, huh?"

"I'm Draco Malfoy. My father is Lucius Malfoy, and he's the chairman of the board of governors." The boy lifted his chin arrogantly. Their new teacher grunted in recognition, reclining back in his seat lazily, hands clasped idly behind his head. Pansy decided to offer her two knuts.

"Maybe you're not aware, but Draco's father is an advisor to the Minister. That puts him among the most influential people in our country."

"Heh, Lucius Malfoy can prance around in that cloak-and-dagger world all he wants," Ashcroft said wryly. "But what really gets my attention is magical know-how. If you've got that, well, wealth and influence usually just tag along naturally."

Malfoy's cheeks flushed at the casual dismissal of his father. Ron's lips twitched, barely suppressing a laugh. While Hermione found the situation mildly amusing as well, she couldn't help but feel that the professor's brush-off of the man was rash.

"Now, I ain't here to listen to anyone hype up their parents. Either of you mention Malfoy Senior again, and Slytherin's gonna be in the red with them points before you even step off this train."

Draco rose abruptly, his movements sharp, as he gathered his and Parkinson's belongings. Pausing at the door, he shot a venomous glare at the professor before storming out, Parkinson obediently trailing behind him.

Ron chortled aloud. "That was brilliant! Can't wait to tell Harry and Fred and George about this!"

"Hey, it ain't a good look lettin' that attitude out. You catch my drift?"

Her friend grumbled his understanding, and Hermione was somewhat impressed by their teacher.

"Professor Ashcroft, I apologize for their disrespect. Should I pen a report to the headmaster and Professor Snape?" asked Turner earnestly.

He shook his head in the negative. "Naw, don't bother with that. Let's just stick to why I'm here. I wanna get to know y'all a tad better."

And so it went. As the train started up, each person introduced themselves and shook hands with their teacher. He asked about their career aspirations, but few seemed to have clear ideas for their future after graduating from Hogwarts. The exception was Hannah Abbott, who shared her ambition to become a healer. Ron mentioned he liked the idea of being an auror, which led their teacher to share some of his experiences in magical law enforcement.

Professor Ashcroft recounted a couple of intriguing stories—one about cursed statues mistakenly used as lawn ornaments in California and the other describing the arrest of an unregistered dolphin animagus who liked to invade public beaches and flash muggle women—before asking what they had learned in their defense class the previous year. He listened attentively as the students described some of the content covered by Crouch Jr. Overall, he seemed pleased with the diversity of the topics. When Ernie Macmillan criticized the lesson on unforgivable curses, the hufflepuff was gently rebuked.

"That was about as practical as it gets. I ain't planning to change that. I'll be teaching y'all spells and defensive techniques that'll really save your hides when things go south."

Hermione was nearly certain that the professor had just hinted at You-Know-Who's return. Before she could voice her suspicion, the trolley witch happened to pass by, and he purchased the remaining stock of chocolate frogs to share between them. The man seemed slightly annoyed when only a couple of people helped themselves.

Hermione watched as Ashcroft opened one of the boxes. Grasping the squirming treat firmly in one hand, he took a pocket knife from his robes and flicked it open, then sliced the chocolate frog's belly from end to end. It unexpectedly let out a feeble, raspy cry before twitching a couple of times and going still. He looked up to see all the students staring at him in horrified fascination.

"I'll clue ya in on somethin' right quick. Genuine frogs sport this mighty thin layer of skin on their belly. Now these here chocolate ones, they're all tricked out with sympathetic magic to pretend they're the real McCoy. Give 'em a sharp prod or two on the gut; they'll reckon they've croaked."

"Blimey, did you actually kill it?" Ron asked, staring at the professor in astonishment as he began munching on one of the legs.

Ashcroft stopped chewing and sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"No, Ron, I believe he's suggesting that the magic compelled it to mimic the death of a real frog."

"Exactly. I didn't even bust the spell. It's still there, ya see. You can tell by how it wobbles." With a firm shake, the three remaining limbs twisted in a way that was unsettlingly lifelike. Then, with a tap of his wand, his knife was perfectly clean again.

"Do you wanna give it a shot?"

As Ron and Anthony Rosenstein grabbed a box, Hermione's stomach twisted uncomfortably. She and the others watched as they both used the professor's knife, and the room echoed with the simulated death cries of chocolate frogs.

"I spent ten years of my life chasing after these things when I didn't have to in the first place, but I think I would've done it anyway, even if I knew this trick," Ron said, his face pale.

"Magic's serious business, folks. Back in the States, we got our own approach. We ain't as caught up in charms and transfigurations as you Brits. While we may teach those as specialized subjects, at Ilvermorny, they're part of the broader categories of 'Sympathetic' and 'Empathetic' magic, respectively. So, this semester, I'll be guidin' y'all through both."

"That sounds proper useful," Anthony remarked.

She looked up just in time to catch Ashcroft's wand moving in a familiar pattern. A silver mongoose burst from the tip and streaked out the compartment window in a blur. Marcus Turner jerked back in surprise, and his chocolate frog took the chance to hop out the window too. Hermione was impressed by the silent casting.

Ernie Macmillan furrowed his brows. "Was that a corporeal patronus, then? Why that spell? The windows aren't fogging up or anything."

Observing the slightly panicked expressions on the faces of most of their group, Hermione decided to speak up and reassure them. "Wizards who become very proficient with the charm can use it to quickly send messages across great distances."

"Yep, just shot one off to Grubbly-Plank and McGonnagal, letting 'em know the train's cruising along and might pull into Hogsmeade Station a bit early," Ashcroft said. He shot Hermione a knowing look. "Five points to Gryffindor for being well-read."

"Looked sorta like my dad's Weasel Patronus," Ron muttered.

"No, it was a mongoose," Padma insisted. "Me and Parvati have seen loads of them at our grandparents' place in India. They're way bulkier than weasels. Are you going to teach us patronus communication, Professor?" Her enthusiasm for the idea shone through her words.

"You ever seen babies struttin' their stuff before they even crawl?" Their teacher asked rhetorically. "Masterin' the corporeal patronus is like your crawlin' phase this year. Ain't got time for fancy extras. And five points to Ravenclaw for usin' your eyes."

Hermione resolved firmly to herself that she'd convince him to instruct Harry on how to send messages with his stag. Ron caught onto something she hadn't noticed.

"Why's Grubbly-Plank here? Shouldn't Hagrid be sorting out the carriages and stuff?"

"I haven't had the pleasure of meetin' this Hagrid, Mr. Weasley, but during our staff meetup the other day, some professors were chattin' about him takin' a sabbatical."

The idea was downright preposterous. Hagrid cherished his roles as both instructor and groundskeeper and had a multitude of responsibilities at Hogwarts that he'd be reluctant to entrust to anyone else, not even Professor Grubbly-Plank. Hermione couldn't shake off the deep sense of unease and worry that his absence sparked within her. Her worries were interrupted by Professor Ashcroft leaning toward her and Ron.

"Gonna have to hop off this train soon to lend Grubbly-Plank a hand with the thestrals, but before I do, got a little favor to ask from you Gryffindors. Do either of you happen to know a Neville Longbottom?"

 

[Caramelo]

The reason for my absence, despite promising biweekly updates, is that I am now a father and my baby was born somewhat premature. Now that my little one has a couple months under his belt and he's doing better, I was able to de-stress and remember to post this. I am going to continue updating this fic, but the update schedule will vary greatly for obvious reasons.

I don't like the chapter title. I'll try to come up with something more clever in the coming days. I hope you enjoy the chapter!

*****

Harry rubbed his eyes, the weight of a sleepless night settling over him like a heavy shroud. Although Neville tried to be discreet, the Lumos spell cast eerie shadows on the ceiling, keeping Harry awake. Harry didn't scold him—he knew he'd do the same if he had a similar photo of his own father. For a moment, wishful thinking crept in: he imagined trading places with Neville, having his parents back, even if they were in the broken states of Alice and Frank. Guilt swiftly welled up in his chest for feeling such misplaced envy; after all, Neville had lost his parents too—just in a different way.

Harry's thoughts drifted to their new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, sparking a flicker of excitement. Learning that Professor Ashcroft could conjure a Patronus was encouraging; it spoke to his skill and hinted he wasn't secretly a Death Eater or hiding a second face under a turban. And the gesture of giving Neville the photo said something promising.

But would he teach anything worthwhile? The toad-faced woman who had been at his trial was now here to interfere—at least that was Hermione's take on her speech at the Welcoming Feast. As Harry watched the shadows shift on the ceiling, he pictured his parents within them, young and in love at Hogwarts. A pang of longing struck him for the stories they'd never share—and with that final, somber thought, sleep took him.

*****
Harry entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, greeted by a familiar, no-nonsense atmosphere. The furnishings were much like Barty Crouch Jr. had left them, except the desks were pushed aside, creating a spacious central area where intricate runes were now etched into the stone floor.

A roughly chiseled golem statue stood at the center of the floor markings, imposing in its stone form. Hermione, however, was more interested in the circle of runes etched around its base; she knelt to study them closely, her expression shifting from curiosity to awe. Harry mentally kicked himself for not taking Ancient Runes in third year.

Personal items scattered around the room offered insights into Ashcroft's personality: near his desk were an old acoustic guitar, a stack of vinyl records, and posters featuring Muggle bands, all enchanted to move. One showed d four men with mop-top haircuts crossing a zebra-striped crosswalk.


Professor Ashcroft sat on the edge of his desk, legs crossed, his eyes locked on the steam rising from his tea as if it contained the secrets to a distant mystery. The earthy, sharp scent was oddly familiar to Harry, though he couldn't quite place it. When Seamus Finnegan posed a question about pewter cauldrons, Ashcroft's gaze shifted to him slowly, as if he'd just returned from a distant thought.

"Alright, folks, let's just ease into this class, yeah?" The accent unmistakably marked him as a Yankee. After last year, Harry was accustomed to wizards from various countries, but this was his first time dealing with an American.

Harry and a few others noticed that his speech was slow and uneven, something was off. "Are you alright, Professor?" Padma asked, her voice laced with concern.


"Never been better," he replied, his tone now imbued with a sense of presence that had been missing moments earlier. A glance at the classroom blackboard revealed why Seamus had asked about cauldrons, and in that moment, his hopes for Ashcroft as a serious teacher crumbled as he read what was scrawled there.

The title—Unconventional Methods for Dealing with Dark Wizards and Witches—Without Wands—was completely absurd. Everyone knew that losing your wand nearly guaranteed you'd be done for. The methods listed only added to his disbelief; one suggested knocking out a dark wizard with a pewter cauldron, while another recommended smothering an enemy in their sleep with dragon spit. With each glance at the board, Harry felt his frustration rising—this was the opposite of the serious, practical training he so desperately needed. How were they supposed to face real dangers with this kind of nonsense?

Crude, hastily drawn stick figures acted out the "wandless combat" with cartoonish flair. To the disbelief of Harry and the other students, they abruptly paused, sprouted hands, and began cheekily flipping off their audience. Their professor hurriedly waved his wand, erasing the offending drawings with a flick.

"Sorry 'bout that, folks," Ashcroft said, rubbin' the back of his neck, a bit sheepish. "Art and—y'know, enchantin' artwork—it's kinda a hobby of mine. I might've accidentally gave these lads a bit too much autonomy." The students exchanged uncertain glances, unsure of how to react.

"Right… I'm Professor Ashcroft. I'll be covering Defense Against the Dark Arts. Some of this stuff… yeah, it's rough, but when you need it, you'll be glad it's there. So… let's get on with our first lesson."

The class hadn't even begun to process the professor's introduction when the classroom door creaked open. In walked Dolores Umbridge, her squat figure unmistakable. Gone were the drab black robes of that day; she was now swathed in a garish pink tweed cloak, her hair adorned with matching bows. She interrupted his introduction with her own, voice thick with syrupy charm.

"I am Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic. What an absolute pleasure it is to finally set eyes on you, Mr. Ashcroft. You see, your sudden arrival was rather an unexpected development, and I do feel it my duty to keep a close eye on such… surprises. Naturally, I am here now to ensure things are conducted precisely as they should be, with a little extra guidance, of course."

At that moment, she snickered—a shrill, almost mechanical grating tee-hee. Harry wondered if his ears might start bleeding.

"Well, let me level with you. I had more important things to deal with that were a better use of my time than acceptin' your tea invite. And honestly, I'm more of a coffee person."

Umbridge was left flustered by the casualness with which he said it, like someone choosing between pumpkin juice and butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks.

"Now, um, oh, regarding the decor in this room, I must say it's all extremely... mundane. But not to worry! I have brought along a little something to infuse this learning environment with a touch of much-needed charm."

She presented their professor with a ceramic plate depicting a carpeted floor strewn with yarn balls and a tabby kitten nestled among them. The awkwardness intensified as their professor stared at the plate as though it were a venomous snake.

"Surely you can't deny the charm of an innocent kitten." Umbridge cooed.

"I'm gonna be honest; this just ain't gonna cut it."

"That's simply delightful; thank you ever so much for accepting... wait, what? What in Merlin's beard do you mean?"

"Milo and Otis."

"Excuse me?" Umbridge was bewildered. Her expression mirrored that of the students. Ashcroft gave them all a disappointing glower.

"None of y'all seen that No-Maj flick called Milo and Otis? Classic stuff. It came out 'bout ten years back. It's all 'bout this lost cat named Milo."

"I don't quite see where this is heading, but I must say, Mr. Ashcroft, I have absolutely no interest in Muggle culture. Frankly, I can't fathom why anyone would waste their time on their silly television contraptions."

A few Slytherins laughed. Umbridge's lips curled into a smug smile, clearly thinking she had embarrassed him. If Ashcroft was, he didn't show it.

"That's a real drag. If you wasted time like me, you'd know this kitten's a dead ringer for Milo from 'Milo and Otis.' Just needs a dog buddy. That'd be Otis."

"I do apologize if I seem rather blunt, but I find this tangent rather pointless."

Ashcroft smiled at her, his scar scrunching up in a zigzag way that reminded Harry of his own. The expression was decidedly impish.

"Vorticum chromatica," he intoned, waving his wand at the plate simultaneously. Umbridge was too slow to pull it away in time, allowing a mesmerizing swirl of tan and black hues to seep onto its surface. Everyone watched in awe as the colors formed into the likeness of a pug. The little dog sniffed around for a moment before lifting its hind leg and pissing messily into the basket. The now-distressed kitten made several attempts to climb out, only to retreat as the canine circled around, yipping excitedly.

"Are you—" she started angrily before abruptly switching back to feigned cheer. "Never mind; some things are best discussed in private." She let out another forced chuckle and all but shoved the plate into his hands. "It's yours now. And I must remind you, Mr. Ashcroft, that it is most appropriate to address me by my official title. Undersecretary isn't a minor accomplishment, you know."

"You got it, Dolores. And just so we're clear, it's professor."

"Mr. Ashcroft, to be perfectly candid, your lack of proper teaching credentials is very worrying—"

"I hate to drop a truth bomb, but it's pretty clear you either didn't bother readin' my file or you're disregardin' my decade in magical law enforcement. So, as long as you're not gonna reciprocate, you're just 'Dolores' to me."

"Of course," she said. "Commence your lesson." She settled into one of the desks and gestured sharply. Ashcroft wasted no more time to address the class.

"Alright, y'all, time to get real: what's the most likely threat you figure you'll be facin' as witches and wizards?"

Harry immediately raised his hand.

"Yes Potter?"

"Voldemort and his Death Eaters," Harry said firmly, looking over and locking eyes with Malfoy.

"Alright, that'll do," their professor said, leaning back with a slight nod. "But I'm lookin' for somethin' less specific."

Many of the students were taken aback by his casual reception of Harry's answer.

"Ahem."

"Let's widen the scope here a bit. Any takers?" Ashcroft asked, his gaze flitting from one student to the next.

"Ahem." At the second interruption from Umbridge, Ashcroft spun around.

"You're really eatin' my time up."

"I will remind you, just this once, that part of education includes reprimanding students who don't understand the importance of truthfulness. If they persist in lying, they must face a punishment commensurate with the harm their lies cause."

"So, I take it you're going to ignore his lies?" Her mouth stretched into a frown that was a tad too wide as she looked at Harry. When there was no answer from the professor, Umbridge tisked in faux disappointment before conjuring a small clipboard and quill and jotting something down.

"I'm not lying!" Harry shot back heatedly. But Ashcroft cut in before he could recount all that transpired in the graveyard of Little Hangleton.

"Hold up, Potter. Why are you insistin' on takin' the fall here? And for Fudge, no less. That man picks the most inept folks. His people are as reliable as his taste in hats, which ain't sayin' much. They made it too extreme, and that's why the third task went to sh*t, and you came back with a body."

Harry was on the verge of protesting, of vehemently insisting that it wasn't like that at all and that Voldemort was back, when Hermione kicked him in the shin.

"Ow, hey!" he yelled, bending down to rub his leg.

"Mr. Ashcroft, you disgrace yourself by misusing your position to fill our students' heads with such dreadful notions."

Their new teacher just laughed in response, and there was something more in it—sharp, cutting, like it could slice through the air. Each chuckle held a weight of scorn and disdain. Harry's gaze shifted to Umbridge, whose flaring nostrils did nothing to soften her toad-like appearance. Looking around at his classmates, Harry noticed nods and furrowed brows, signs that they were thinking over Ashcroft's words. To be honest, it was depressing—the Ministry's incompetence in causing Cedric's death was both believable and easier to stomach. How could he even begin to combat these untruths?

When Ashcroft's laughter had ebbed away, he regarded the Undersecretary with a stare that dredged up memories of how his Aunt Petunia would look at the worms on the wet pavement in Little Whinging.

"Since you're so eager to crash my lesson, why not come up front? Help with the lecture. I'm sure the students and I will get a lot outta hearin' your critique afterward."

"Excellent proposal," she said excitedly. "If your teaching strays outside the bounds of acceptability, I'll provide Ministry-approved guidelines that will help with the formulation of future lessons. I'll have you know that your failure to submit your syllabus and supplemental educational materials has also been noted in my report."

Ashcroft ignored her and continued with his lecture.
"Bout that question earlier—your main threat? Other wizards. Goblins and other near-humans? Many are gettin' swallowed up, like the veelas in France. The rest are pushed into reserves or given only limited freedom, stuck in niche roles. Take them merpeople in your Black Lake—the Ministry's got their numbers locked down, even though the lake could easily hold thousands more."

Harry glanced over to see that Hermione looked particularly appalled at that last bit.

"Sir, are you suggesting that the Ministry actively regulates the number of offspring the merpeople can have?"

"Yeah, that's what I'm gettin' at. Now, considerin' the fact that the most dangerous thing you'll probably run into is another human—"

"Actually, the Ministry is still discussing legislation to address the threat posed by lycanthropes—" Harry felt relieved when Ashcroft cut her off.
"Settin' aside the werewolf stuff, picture this here scene: You got a woman, no wand, cornered by another witch. What's her play?"

"Well, the Ministry's guidance would be for her to find a safe place—"

"Uh-uh, no way. She's stuck in a corner with no way out and no wand."

"Well, it was extremely foolish of her to get caught up in such a poor situation."

"Are you sure about that? It's time to think on your feet. Since we're talkin' about a scrap with another witch—"

Ashcroft swept his wand in a complex arc, and the golem shimmered before taking on the likeness of their Transfiguration professor. Though clearly still a statue, its dimensions and features were remarkably accurate. The stone face bore McGonnagal's infamous pinched expression.
"This McGolem—ha, McGolem!—will stand in for the witch who's got you cornered, Dolores. I gotta admit, I respect McGonagall. She's got skills. Just don't go tellin' that to the old cat lady."

He finished his statement with an overt wink, earning a laugh from the gryffindors. Umbridge was taken aback but quickly composed herself.

"You failed to mention I'd be part of this demonstration. However, I still have my wand and am far from cornered. I'm in a significantly better position than your hypothetical victim. I'll be informing Minerva that you used her likeness without her consent."

"Well, you agreed to help, right? And sure, go on and tell her. While you're at it, I'm sure she'll just love hearin' you think she failed Mr. Diggory. Ain't that why you're here after all?"

Their professor stepped back and snapped his fingers, and the students watched wide-eyed as the stone septuagenarian began to haltingly plod toward Umbridge.

Umbridge confidently cast "Impedimenta!" but nothing happened. She then shouted "Bombarda Maxima!" twice. On her second attempt, sparks shot out from the bottom of her wand, causing her to drop it and let out a pained yelp.

"Hey! What have you done?" Umbridge shrieked, her voice trembling with indignation. She snarled and moved forward, only to stop abruptly. Harry realized there was an invisible barrier blocking her path. "What are these?" she cried, staring at the runes that now emitted a faint purple glow. Despite her efforts, she couldn't reach or move past them.

"Don't bother tryin' to escape. Use this," Ashcroft said, tossing a miniature pewter cauldron at her that he had pulled out of his impossibly deep pants pocket.

Dolores was tiring quickly, her focus consumed by the slow but sure advance of the lumbering stone figure. As a result, the hurled cauldron struck her on the side of the head like a gong before falling to the ground and rolling away.

"Aw, dammit." Ashcroft muttered.

"You dare assault me, you wretched man!" Umbridge screamed. "I will make sure you are stripped of your position!" Her movements became shaky and strained as she tired out from being pursued at a sluggish pace.

Umbridge, you don't need your wand for this! You can't jog around slowly forever." He snapped his fingers again, and the golem doubled its speed, making Umbridge shriek as it approached. Its hand crashed onto the floor with a loud crack. As it prepared for another strike, Umbridge's eyes widened in terror, her cheeks turning puce. With a gasp, she collapsed, suspended mid-air instead of falling.

There was a brief silence as Ashcroft dispelled the enchantment that held her aloft. After her body descended to the ground he examined her carefully, crouching beside her. When he finally stood, Malfoy broke the silence.

You nearly did her in; you're absolutely nuts," accused the blonde.

Ashcroft sighed deeply before twirling his wand lazily, and Malfoy was lifted into the air and levitated over to Umbridge. Panic seized him as he hovered dangerously close to the stone McGonagall.

"You absolute nutter! Put me down, now! You know my father's on the Board of Governors—"

"Quit your gripin', you're perfectly fine." Their professor scolded, and the golem withdrew as Draco's body levitated closer, the blonde flailing helplessly all the while. The absurd scene made the gryffindors laugh.

He seized the cauldron that had struck Umbridge and hurled it at the lookalike, causing it to retreat back in a robotic manner. It was eerie to see the stone replica of McGonagall move in such a way.

"You see, that statue was spelled to back off if you got too close or tossed somethin' at it. This drill was 'bout how sometimes you gotta confront head-on and use what's around you. But Dolores? She just couldn't find the nerve. Also, don't always count on havin' your wand."

Ashcroft gently lowered Draco to the floor, who quickly scuttled towards the back of the class, seeking to hide himself after he regained his feet.
"You can go back to your corridor now," he said offhand to the McGonagall facsimile, and it lumbered out of the classroom.

"Professor, do you reckon we should take Ms. Umbridge to the hospital wing?" It was Neville who had spoken.

"Quick thinkin', Longbottom. It's safer for us to be over there when she comes to."

"Um, actually, that's not what I meant—"

"Crabbe, Goyle! Wanna rack up some points for your house?"

The two looked at him blankly. "We wouldn't mind," mumbled Crabbe.

"Cool deal." Extending his wand towards Umbridge, Ashcroft performed a smooth arc in her direction.

"Levitolum Bulbus. There. Now she's as light as a Muggle balloon, floatin' a foot off the ground if dropped. Y'all just have to remember that she's delicate. You could crack her spine, or somethin' worse could happen if you go treatin' her like a ragdoll."

Crabbe and Goyle exchanged a puzzled glance, probably wondering what a balloon was, before shrugging and carrying her out.

Ashcroft turned and appraised him with a neutral expression. Unlike other professors, there were no expectations, bias, or prejudice in that gaze. There was no phantom of his parents overshadowing him. To Harry, it was invigorating—he was seen simply as himself, and, dare he say it, not even as the Boy Who Lived. Just Harry. This realization sparked a hopeful thought: this year had the potential to be truly great.

"Hey, listen, Potter. I'm givin' you detention. Don't bother arguin' 'bout it."

"Wait, what?"

 

[Caramelo]

Hello Everyone,

First off—this story is not dead! Thank you all for reading and sticking with it. My absence was due to a series of family hospitalizations: first, I was down with dengue fever, then my baby got COVID, and finally, my wife came down with pneumonia. It's been a tough time, but thankfully, we're all doing well now.

As for the story: I ran into a roadblock. Initially, I had my SI character as a teacher at Hogwarts, but it's just not working. My character's too independent to tolerate Umbridge for long, and if he disrupts her role, it throws off the whole Order of the Phoenix plot, where her antagonism is so crucial to Harry's development. The "teacher" angle has also started to feel forced, like my character is trying to be a "Lupin 2.0," which doesn't suit his nature.

So, I'm reworking things to let my character join the plot in a way that's more natural. Again, this story is still very much alive—I'm just going to modify (significantly) so my SI gets involved in a way that fits his character.