A/N: Hello, dear readers! This is my first 'official' foray into Harry Potter fanfiction. I hope that at some point, this one-shot is going to be a chapter – or part of a chapter – in a much, much longer story. For that I would probably need a beta to 1.) bounce ideas off of, and 2.) help me with some grammar issues (details can be found on my profile page). However, this is the first scene that I have brought up to reasonable quality by myself. It's not great, I know, but if anyone finds themselves intrigued by what you see, feel free to drop me a review or a PM. In case you aren't, please leave a review anyway. Pretty please.
Disclaimer: Would I really need to fix my saxophone myself if I owned even a tiny fraction of HP? You have three guesses for the answer and the first two don't count.
Hermione Weasley was tired. This was to be expected, she supposed, as she walked down the dimly-lit corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. After all, she had had a nineteen-hour day, and even her relatively youthful appearance could not belie the fact that she was quite rapidly approaching fifty years of age. She smiled somewhat resignedly at that particular unbidden thought entering her brain. While witches and wizards were generally expected to live longer than their nonmagical counterparts, almost half-a-century of life and the experiences that came with it still counted as a significant number in her book.
She shook her head in exasperation. Mulling over her personal life was something she rarely allowed herself these days. That was one of the – admittedly numerous – drawbacks of being the headmistress of one of the most prestigious institutions of magical education in the world. She liked to think that under her tutelage, Hogwarts had become even more renowned than under her predecessors. Granted, that was not a particularly difficult accomplishment when one thought of the last years and immediate aftermath of the tenure of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, it was, however a significant one when one instead thought about her immediate predecessor, Minerva McGonagall. After the war, she had developed from one of Dumbledore's staunchest supporters into a reformer that was most certainly not afraid of making hard choices. A complete overhaul of several subjects that had previously been taught in the same way for decades had followed, and once more Hogwarts had become a pinnacle of learning.
Eventually, however, her mulling over days and memories long past brought the esteemed Professor Weasley (hah, she snorted, twenty years ago I would have bet a considerable sum of money on never hearing those words together) to one of her current plights. It was not an unfamiliar problem by any means, though it was the first time that she had to consider it from this side of the table, so to speak. Once more, Hogwarts was a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor short. The previous teacher, one Mr Smith, had gotten himself into a fight in the middle of Diagon Alley the day before (apparently, his opponent had been the person that kept the other side of his wife's bed warm during school terms). Needless to say, his career as an educator had not outlasted the following morning. Where someone like Dumbledore may have waved Smith's actions off as unrelated to Hogwarts business, Hermione was far less lenient. Someone who could not control himself in the most public setting his country had to offer could under no circumstances be entrusted with the care of said country's future. The two dozen howlers from parents that had caught wind of the story even before it had appeared in the Daily Prophet hadn't hindered the decision-making process, either.
The man's violent outburst had left the headmistress in a tight spot, though. She absolutely loathed the idea of bringing in an auror from the Ministry's forces. Not only would that indebt her to both the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Ministry of Magic at large to some degree or other, it would also bring back memories of the Toad Woman teaching – or whatever had passed as that – at Hogwarts about thirty years ago. Needless to say, she wanted to avoid that course of action at all costs.
To that effect, she had called in a full staff meeting, encouraging each of the professors to think of suitable candidates for the role. After all, the new school year was a mere six weeks away, and the letters to all the students, new and old, were meant to be sent off a frighteningly close two weeks from now. The new teacher would have to hand in a selection of his preferred course books (sadly, the introduction of even a draft on a canonical work regarding the subject matter had proven to be a fruitless endeavour so far), the choice of which would have to be put forth to Flourish & Blotts before it could be made public in the students' letters.
Thankfully, her trusted colleagues (Hermione refused to think of them as anything but her equals) had actually come forth with some viable suggestions that she planned to contact in the morning. Most of them came from the continent, but there were also some suggestions of candidates from the Americas or Australia. Not that she cared about that. As long as they had a working knowledge of the English language and the required curriculum, Hermione had absolutely no preference of where her educators came from. Sadly, the wars against Tom Riddle had cost a significant number of aspiring academics on the British Isles their all-too-brief lives, ripping holes into the academic community that were only just now starting to heal.
Those were the thoughts the headmistress entertained when she finally stepped in front of the gargoyle that guarded her office and adjacent living quarters, and upon the muttered "toothpaste" the gargoyle spun and gave way to the stairs that lay behind. In her exhaustion, Hermione did not notice the very slight mud stains on the steps. Only when she noticed that the door to her office stood just a crack open did she become wary. Normally, she took great care in spelling the door shut each time she left her office. It was possible that a student intent on mischief could stumble upon the password by a lucky shot (even though she highly doubted that many young witches or wizards would think of her particular one), but a closed door that could not be opened by a basic unlocking charm presented a distinct warning. Her wand now firmly in the grasp of her right hand – she had mastered casting with her left a while ago, but her having to approach the door from her left made that particular trick useless for the moment – she slowly crept towards the door, the body-bind cursealready at the tip of her tongue.
But then a thought occured to her. Her opponent – providing that there actually was one, of course – would almost certainly expect her to do just that. Anyone who got past the gargoyle and the locking charm would not be as stupid as to leave the door open. But what could they possibly want to achieve by this? Could it be a trap? Is there some sort of elaborate contraption waiting for me on the other side of that door? Oh, well, it might be time to make use of that Ravenclaw wit the hat always said I had. Left without any viable alternatives, Hermione advanced slowly towards the door. When she arrived, she risked a peek, but was unable to spot anything of importance. Conjuring a mirror, she was about to slide it between the door and its frame, when a lazy voice sounded from the other side of the door.
"Oh, for Morgana's sake, will you just come in? I even left the bloody door open for you."
The headmistress frowned. The voice sounded artificial, most likely through the use of a voice-altering charm. She had had ample experience with those over the years, as it was one of Ronald's favourite tools to spice up their sexual encounters. Usage of that charm indicated that her intruder would most likely not give up his or her identity willingly. For now, however, she decided to act innocent.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice emitting equal measures of surprise and caution.
"Someone who has a favour to ask of you," came the prompt reply. "Also, did you honestly expect an answer to that question? You… disappoint me, Headmistress."
"It is only polite to ask. Something which you neglected to do, I might add."
"Why would I?" came the reply, accompanied by a chuckle.
At this point, Hermione was rapidly growing impatient. We could go on like this for the next five hours and I would still be standing outside. How does the saying go? Ah, yes, 'Gryffindors charge.' Caution, however, needs to be exercised to a reasonable degree. Thus she tipped her wand to the top of her head, shuddering briefly at the familiar sensation of the disillusionment charm taking effect. Ready.
In lieu of her next answer and with her mind made up, Hermione finally kicked the door in, but did not make true on her old house's unofficial motto. Still wary of potential traps, she stayed behind the frame of the door. By now she was fully expecting her foe to be waiting for her in a duelling stance, ready to pounce. She was therefore surprised when the only person in the room turned out to be a woman clad in an almost-skintight black jacket and trousers. Oh, and she was also sitting in her chair.. with her legs crossed on the very expensive desk in front of it. Incensed at that casual display of disregard for old and valuable furniture but nevertheless obsevant, Hermione noted that the aforementioned jacket had a hood attached to it, which occluded the intruder's face from the headmistress's view. Other than that particular oddity – Hermione suspected clever charmswork behind it, and, among other things, the voice-altering charm – the woman looked rather unremarkable. The unicolor outfit helped a great deal with that, which, since she would have no need to blend into the shadows, is exactly the purpose, Hermione realised with a silent groan. Speaking of which…
"Your disillusionment charm needs work. Old Albus's was much better. And please, do come in. You are my host after all. Technically speaking."
"How do you know about Professor Dumbledore's disillusionment charm?"
"Let's just say that I have my sources." The voice was now decidedly smug.
Hermione frowned, the grip on her wand once more tightening. She had just noticed a few things about the artificial voice that rubbed her the wrong way. First of all, no one who grew up in the wizarding world would know how to create that kind of voice. They would just make it deeper or imitate someone else's. Also, it has a slightly American tinge to it, like from someone who initially grew up in Britain but had then spent significant time in the States.
Deciding to capitalise on her discovery, she asked "Where are you from?"
"Not the question I was expecting, to be honest, and not one I will answer right now. But you noticed. That alone is remarkable. You truly are as brilliant as he said you would be…"
"Who said what?" Hermione asked, now definitely more than a little scared.
Had she been betrayed? Had the old Pureblood families finally had enough of a filthy mudblood overseeing the education of their undoubtedly equally as bigoted spawn? All those emotions weren't visible to the intruder as Hermione had still not come around to actually lifting the disillusionment charm. The silence, however, was telling enough.
"That would be telling, now, wouldn't it?" the mysterious woman chided the headmistress.
Actually chided her, Hermione thought.
"Suffice to say that I have no intention of taking your life. That would be extremely inconvenient. Also, had I wanted to do that, I would have closed the door, reapplied the charm, and let a withering curse on the doorknob do the job for me."
"Glad to see that you have it all planned out," Hermione muttered, though the logic made sense to her. Thus, she chose to let go of the disillusion.
"Don't you look tired," the unknown woman mocked. "But don't you worry, because I am about to put you out of your misery. Oh, no, not in that way," she added hastily, when she noted that Hermione's wand was about to flick upwards. "I meant that I wanted to apply for the vacant DADA teacher's job."
At that, Hermione had to snort. "I would have to see your face for that."
To her great surprise, her new 'applicant's' hands went to the edges of her hood, where they lingered for a moment.
"I suppose that's only fair. After all, you showed me yours already." With that, the hood came off.
Hermione took a moment to study the young, very young face that looked back at her. The first thing she noticed was a bob of dark red hair. Her face was slim, with pronounced cheekbones and full, rose-coloured lips. The nose was small, and the eyes… oh God, Hermione thought, the eyes.
"Since this is my more-or-less official job interview, I suppose I really should introduce myself."
At that, the young woman swung her legs off the desk, stood up, went down the three steps to where Hermione was still standing, clearly shell-shocked. She grabbed one limp hand and shook it vigorously.
"Ella Potter, pleased to make your acquaintance."