Chapter three: Harry Potter, 1904

Several days pass by. You and the others have taken up temporary lodgings at Diagon Alley. Lysander and Flitwick are currently at work going between following the letter's instructions and finding something a little more permanent. The letter mentioned how much it would cost, but not where it was.

Considering that you were the one that gave the letter to Filius, they're somewhat frustrated with your (future) negligence. You'd like to have words with yourself too, but barring another strange turn of events it doesn't seem like you'll be having the opportunity.

Perhaps you could write a letter to yourself, and then not open it up until after you've given the letter to Filius next year?

Regardless, that will have to wait. You're in the process of settling some other time travel business.

You're sitting outside the office of the Headmistress of Hogwarts, Eupraxia Mole. You remember something about her being involved with some Peeves-y incident, but you aren't sure if that's happened yet. Maybe you'll look it up in the history books or ask Lysander or something like that.

Helpfully enough, there are chairs outside the office. There are only two, the one that you're sitting in and another, occupied by a short woman with a hooked nose that reminds you a little of Severus Snape. Her face is blotched by rosacea, no doubt brought on by her drinking. You have been sitting here for twenty minutes and in all that time she hasn't kept the flask away from her lips for more than a hundred seconds— you've been keeping track.

All that you've been able to make out in that time is that her name is Professor Doppler. And… she is not here to see the Headmistress.

You're thinking about this when the door to Mole's office opens up, and out steps someone who looks remarkably like Doppler. In fact, they're dead ringers for each other, except that the new one lacks Doppler One's alcoholic rosacea in favor of a certain blankness in her expression. She moves like a charmed broom, automatically and almost artificially, and passes you without acknowledging your presence.

Doppler One follows after her.

"Thank you for waiting, Mister Evans."

"It isn't a problem. I'm sorry for asking to meet with you on such short notice."

Mole smiles. "Whatever do you mean? We've been expecting you for a very long time."

You take a seat in front of Mole's desk. You try to not think about how familiar these circumstances are. It'll only make you homesick.

There are other things for you to think about, anyway. Like how you're going to convince the Headmistress to give you a job when you don't have any verifiable credentials and aren't even sure what the openings are. And, too, that thing about how she's been expecting you.

No. They have been expecting you.

You decide to go with that first. "What do you mean, ma'am?"

"You're not really from Canada are you, young man?"

You had mentioned it when you had arranged for the appointment. You didn't have the accent— you aren't even exactly sure what a Canadian wizard's accent is supposed to be— but you thought it best to stick to the script that Time had apparently arranged for you.

"No. I'm not."

Eupraxia Mole looks at you carefully. "You're not aware of it, are you?" She grins. "Finally, somebody else who's in the dark. And here I thought that you were going to be lording secrets over me."

Speaking of people lording secrets over other people…

"Explain, please?"

"Oh, right." She chuckles. "Twenty-eight years ago, shortly after I became Headmistress, I was given a letter that told me to expect you.

"It… would have been exactly when I was born."

"That doesn't surprise me. The whole thing was supposed to have been a prophecy. But I'm getting ahead of myself. The letter had apparently been handed down from Headmaster to Headmaster. Our memories of it were then removed, to return only should it become relevant to us."

"So when did you remember?"

"As soon as you mentioned your name. You have children with you, don't you?"

"I… do. Three of them."

"But they aren't yours. Tom, Dominique, and Charles. Am I right?"

You nod.

"Hogwarts does not normally allow transfer students. I will have to make an exception for them, however."

"Did…" You may as well see how lucky you've gotten. "Did the letter mention a job opening for me?"

"Oh yes. You're to be made a professor. The letter was incredibly insistent on this point. Now, I don't know what your story is, but the letter— the prophecy, rather— assures us that you'll do well enough."

You nod again, more enthusiastically than before. "I don't know how much I can tell you, but you can sure that I know my way around fighting the Dark Arts."

Mole laughs. "Defense Against the Dark Arts?" She chuckles a little more before continuing. "Not at all, Mister Evans. That's Professor Doppler's post— the one that I was talking with while you were waiting outside."

"Oh. Forgive me, but she looks a little…"

"Scatterbrained?" Mole sighs. "Damaged? It's true." She bites her lip. "I assume you don't know the story. Sabrina Doppler went abroad many years ago, and shortly thereafter disappeared without a trace. Her family lost all contact with her and she was assumed dead.

"She came back to us two years ago but something happened to her while she was away. Sabrina doesn't talk very much anymore, but she does what she has to do. And Louisa… Poor Louisa. You were sitting with her. She took to drinking after Sabrina came back. Not even she knows what happened, but seeing the aftereffects was terrible enough for her." Mole pauses. "I haven't the heart to ask about their parents. They're mudbloods, you know. Their parents can't possibly know how to react to this. It's all that I can do to give the girls a place here, for as long as they can handle it."

There is so much sympathy in Mole's voice that you barely catch how she described the Doppler sisters.

You… You…

This is not the right time. Or the place.

There is a part of you that wants to ream her for saying that. A very big part. And lots of other parts. Most of the parts, actually.

But this is not the place, and she is obviously not a Death Eater. Maybe you can have a chat about this later on. But for now, it's obvious what the worst part of living in this time period is going to be.

"So if I'm not teaching that, then what openings are there?"

"Potions."

"Pardon?"

Maybe you just misheard.

"Potions, she says again.

"But I'm not a potions master."

"Maybe that's a good thing. Our last potions master blew himself up last semester." She chuckles. "Literally blew himself up. He accidentally turned into a living bomb."

"That is making me feel even more inadequate," you admit. "Are you sure that's what I'm supposed to teach?"

"Yes."

You sigh.

"Alright. I'll figure something out. Do you think I might be able to switch to something else if there's an opening?"

"We'll discuss it," she says amicably enough.

Well, that's good. You'll ask Filius later what it was that you were really teaching.

That leaves just one other thing.

"So, do you remember who gave you the letter?"

"Of course! I wouldn't forget it again if you said obliviate. It was Nicholas Flamel. You know, the alchemist."