Dumbledore sighed, shifting through piles of candidates for the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. The ministry was pushing for one of their own for the position, a woman by the name of Dolores Umbridge who was by all accounts absolutely horrible in every way. He needed to find a reasonable alternative, but none were forthcoming. He popped a lemon drop in his mouth and set the list aside as the Floo powder in the fireplace activated, flashing bright green before fading to reveal a well-dressed couple that he recognized immediately, his face splitting into a wide smile.

"Don! Maggie! How have you been? Would you like a lemon drop?" he offered, holding up the bowl.

Don took one while Maggie politely declined, both taking seats in front of his desk. Maggie was grinning widely.

"Albus, it's been too long. We wanted to invite you to our seven hundred and fiftieth anniversary next month!" she said sweetly. Dumbledore feigned surprise.

"Is it already? Seems just yesterday it was seven hundred. I'd love to come, but I'm having quite a bit of trouble finding a new Defense teacher. The last one... left unexpectedly and now the ministry is pushing for one of theirs for the spot, a horrible toad of a woman, but all of the candidates here are either under-qualified or dead," he complained, picking up the list again.

"Funny you should say that," Don said, glancing up. "There are these two brothers who helped Maggie and I when we were going through a bit of a... rough patch last year."

Dumbledore frowned. "Oh, dear. No civilian casualties, I hope?"

Maggie waved the question off. "Nothing big. But those two were very helpful. Hunters, of course, and Americans, so you might not want them here... but they did know their business."

Don nodded in agreement. "Sam and Dean Winchester. You may have heard of them? Apparently they helped to avert the Judeo-Christian Apocalypse a few years back in the Americas. You should come visit sometime, by the way."

"Of course," Dumbledore agreed. "Winchester, you say? I'll look into it. And, of course, I'll be at your anniversary."

~o~

Dean almost blew the owl's head off when it landed on the windowsill of their current cheap motel room. It was only Sam's (annoyingly reasonable) protests of 'wait, Dean, don't use the shotgun, the cops will hear' that stayed his hand long enough for his little brother to snatch the gun out of his hands and open the window, letting the bird in. It spread wide, snowy wings and alit gracefully on the back of the chair like it hadn't just been threatened with violent dismemberment.

Sam sent him a brief bitchface, then reached down and untied something from the owl's leg, which it obligingly extended for him. "Dude, I think this is a letter." He unrolled it and his brow furrowed further. "From an... Albus Dumbledore."

Dean snorted in disbelief. "What? No way that's a real name. Gimme," he ordered, making a grab for the parchment (and who the hell used parchment anymore? He'd only ever seen it used for writing down spells and ancient texts), but Sam jerked it out of his reach, using his annoying Sasquatch height to his advantage.

"He's the Headmaster of... Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Sam said slowly, reading the signature aloud.

"Fuck, dude," Dean swore, successfully snatching the letter out of Sam's hand to read it for himself. "There's a whole fucking school for witches? What do they teach, 'Demon Worship 101?' 'Selling Your Soul for Dummies?'"

Sam rolled his eyes, grabbed the letter back and read a paragraph aloud.

"I understand you have previously encountered Dark Witches and Wizards that dealt with dark powers to come by their magic. The students and faculty here at Hogwarts were born with their abilities."

"Huh," Dean said. "And you just believe that?"

Sam was still reading the letter. "Dude. They want us to teach there."

"What? Even if these are a bunch of Glinda-the-Good-Witches, which I'm still not sold on, by the way, why would they want us within a hundred miles of that place? I mean, they know what we do, right? We are literally the last people anyone should be trusting around a bunch of magic kids!" Dean ranted, waving his arms in the air as he paced around the cramped and shoddily constructed room.

"We should go," Sam said suddenly.

"Are you drunk, Sammy?"

"No, actually, unlike you, it's not my default state," Sam said drily. "Just- think about it. If this is a training ground for bad witches, we want to check it out anyways. And if it's not, Dean, they want us to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. That's basically what we do anyways, except they'd pay us. We don't have much to do right now except wait for Kevin to translate the tablet. It'd be like a paid vacation."

Dean wavered for a moment and Sam hid his triumphant grin. "Fine," he eventually grumbled. "We'll check it out. But that's all!" he insisted, jabbing a finger for emphasis.

Sam smirked to himself and set to writing Dumbly-doof a reply as Dean ran a hand over his face and attempted to banish the gathering headache with alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. A brief fluttering of wings a few minutes later caught his attention and he joined Sam at the window to watch the pure white bird flutter off into the sunset. Dean hoped they wouldn't be expected to place all their calls like they were trapped in the sixteenth century. Hadn't these so-called witches ever heard of cell phones?

I needed to write a fic where Sam and Dean became DADA professors, okay? Sue me. Set during Book Five for Harry Potter (at least right now, subject to change) and S8 of Supernatural (somewhere between Hunteri Heroici and Trial and Error).