Your name is Gwendolyn Goode. You've been out Hogwarts for a grand total of three years, and you are already entirely disenchanted with the wizarding world. Of course, it was all terribly captivating at first; landing what you thought would be your dream job, moving to a beautiful foreign country, expanding your horizons. But much to your dismay, it slowly became clear what complete and utter garbage wizards were turning out to be.

You arrived back in London a week ago, and since your return, you've mostly been moping around like a sad sack of shit. You'd gone back home to your mom's apartment. Back to the room you'd slept in for most of your life, and the neighborhood you'd grown up in. On one hand, it felt good to be home with your mom, back on familiar territory. Vivian had had greeted you with open arms, and you'd cried into her shoulder for hours, almost from the second you stepped in through the door. But on the other hand, you felt more like a child than you ever had in your life.

Your bedroom hadn't been touched while you were away. It was like stepping into a time capsule, with your innocence preserved in purple tie-dyed bed sheets, wooden beaded curtains hanging from your closet door, and a pile of stuffed animals stacked on the floor at the foot of your bed. Your youthful passions were unspoiled in the David Bowie posters still pinned to the walls, in the collection of little mushroom statuettes and figurines tucked between the books on your shelves, and in the little garden box that hung from your window sill, overflowing with out-of-control chive flowers.

Now, littered among all of your childhood relics were some new additions from Albania. A hand knit woolen blanket you'd purchased at a muggle bazaar during the tail end of your stay was draped across the foot of your bed. A bottle of Skenderbeu cognac, a local liquor you'd grown quite fond of, was sitting half empty on the nightstand beside your bed. And the memory board that hung over your writing desk was now full of photos. Moving photos, taken with a magic camera you'd bought yourself with your first salary pay. (The salary that had been magically direct deposited into your fledgling Gringotts account in the form of cash, so that it couldn't be traced back to the depositor.) There were some landscapes, pictures of the Mediterranean gently lapping against sugar sanded beaches, and close-ups of local flora gently swaying in the breeze. But most of the photos were of a woman. A handsome woman, with short chocolate colored hair that was already flecked with grey, and dark olive skin that was riddled with waxy scars. But despite these scars, Desma Lampros was always smiling, her nose scrunching up as she winked at you through the photos.

You sighed and rolled over in your bed, facing away from the picture board. Despite the sun beating down through your window, your mind was on the full moon that was creeping up. Only five more days. You'd become so attuned to the cycles of the moon that you didn't even need to reference your star charts any more. Had Desma figured out how to brew the potion herself yet? You'd been making it for her for the last two months, trying to teach her as a token of appreciation for being allowed to stay in her home after the project ended. Not that keeping you around was any sort of burden; you'd been sharing a bed with her for over a year, after all.

Your relationship with Desma had been easy and casual, but neither of you had ever intended for it to persist after you returned to England. (Because it was horribly unprofessional to sleep with Miss Grey, you fucking idiot. Had Belby found out what happened behind your closed door? Is that why he decided to ruin your life?) Desma was down to earth like that, and you appreciated her candor on the matter. Still, you worried for her. And laying in this narrow twin size bed alone, you missed her terribly, too.

You missed Albania. You missed the salt air and the open ocean, waking up to warm sunlight and blue waters. You missed the Rathskeller bar and eating fresh seafood and shëndetli every other night. (You missed feeling like you were actually doing something with your fucking life.)

In the short time since returning home, your days had started blending together. You'd wake up, you'd lay in bed thinking too hard for a few hours, before having breakfast with your mother. You might run some errands, go to the shops, help around the house. Vivian would go to work in the evenings, and you'd be left in the apartment alone, where you would blast classical records and sit on your bedroom floor drinking cognac. You would flip through your research notes, trying to figure out where the cure was hidden. Then you would read and re-read the patent that didn't acknowledge you in any line of its text. And finally, you would pour over every single note and letter you'd received from Severus Snape in the last three years, staining their pages with your tears. Sometimes you would take out the little bottle of his memory and pour yourself into that instead, letting it loop over and over as you watched the scene from every possible vantage point. Because it was calming, to be grounded by his voice again. But it wasn't the real thing.

You closed your eyes tightly and wrapped your hands around the pendant that hung from your neck. The Phoenix Tears had never left your throat for the entirety of your stay in Albania, and they remained there now. Desma had commented on it back when you first started sleeping together, idly twirling the small bottle between her bandaged fingers as she pillowed her head against your small breasts. She teased you because it was the only thing you left on when you were together, but she seemed to understand that it was from someone special to you. She never held that against you either, and you loved her for that. Because even as you made love to her, just as you had done with Lawrence Hollingsworth in the weeks following your graduation, neither of them quite touched your heart.

Ugh… Lawrence. He'd written you twice since your return to London, but you couldn't bring yourself to write him back. You were pleased to read that he was doing well in the Auror training corps, and he seemed genuinely concerned for you, but he just wasn't who you wanted to see right now. The last time you'd seen him had been about two weeks before you left for Albania, on the night you'd mutually decided to lose your virginities to one another. It had been awkward, because of course it was awkward, but you'd both been eager to get that hurdle out of the way before moving along with your lives. Despite your tumultuous relationship in school, he'd become a close friend, someone you trusted, so it felt perfectly natural at the time. He'd been so sweet and gentle with you too, and you certainly didn't regret it. But you didn't want him to get the wrong idea if you agreed to see him again now. He wasn't who you wanted to see… because you didn't want to see anyone. Even if you had the opportunity, you didn't think you could face Severus right now either.

Because you really were an idiot. A foolish, bright eyed idiot, who just blindly trusted people, and allowed them to walk all over you, because you were wired to see the best in the worst sorts of people, apparently. You let Belby use you for three fucking years. You worked your goddamn hardest, poured your mind and body into perfecting his potion for him, and you didn't even have the ovaries to call him out when he talked down to you like you were a naïve widdle huffie-puffie. Like you were some bubbleheaded intern instead of an honest to god Potions Master just like he was.

Though… maybe you were naïve. Just look where your trusting nature had gotten you. You'd been taken advantage of by not just one, but two famous, respected, well-to-do wizards. You'd just sat there and let them steal what they wanted from you, because you were too immature to recognize when a handsome man was playing you like a fiddle.

Then again… at least one of them had ended up in Saint Mungo's with severe memory loss. At least one of them had gotten what he deserved.

No… that wasn't right. You couldn't allow your heart to grow hard over this. Severus had called your bleeding heart an asset, not a hindrance. He said it's what made you who you were. You had the sudden impulse to roll off of your bed and dig through the box of his letters to find that one, to scan your eyes over the words you had memorized since the day you'd received them. But that would require effort. And you weren't in the mood for exerting any of that right now. And it would only serve to remind you that you hadn't written to Severus since you'd been back to London either. That made you feel guiltier than ignoring Lawrence ever could.

Failed career. Failed relationships. Failed self-preservation. All of your teenage and childhood fears were rearing their ugly heads again. You really weren't cut out for anything. You couldn't venture back into the muggle world; you had no education that would be worth anything to anyone. And all the wizarding world had done was betray you. Even if you took an entry level job at an apothecary, who was to say that you wouldn't get fucked right over out of that job too? It wasn't even that you wanted the recognition for the work you'd done on the Wolfsbane Potion. You'd never been interested in that.

But you'd been promised something else, and absolutely no one had delivered. Slughorn had promised you a future. Belby had promised you a cure. You'd gone into this thinking you were being given the opportunity to really, truly help some of the most disadvantaged people on the planet. Instead, all of your passion and hard work had just helped Belby. You may as well have pinned the Order of Merlin to his chest yourself. Should have just handed him a front page spread in the Prophet lauding him as a hero. You'd helped him gain his fame and notoriety. Meanwhile, you were quite certain there wasn't a single werewolf in England who could afford to brew Wolfsbane Potion this month.

You heard rattling from the kitchen. Mum was up, so that had to make it about… 11? You sighed as you stared at the wall, rubbing your fingers absently over the pendant in your hands. There was nothing you could do about any of this, for now. That's what your mother would tell you. Your brain had been churning with the same circular thoughts for weeks, and try as you might to use your logic, to clear your mind, to return to the present moment… the present moment fucking sucked and you didn't want to be in it either.

You felt like you should be doing something. But all of your plans for convincing the Ministry to help put Wolfsbane Potion into the hands of as many werewolves as possible, sort of hinged on the fact that you had worked on the potion in the first place. And you didn't have any proof of that. Your research notes were all handwritten, not a single one of them dated. Even your letters to Severus never mentioned the potion directly, because of Belby's insistence of your non-disclosure.

Music came drifting into your room now. You groaned and rolled onto your stomach, pressing your face into your pillow with dismay. She wouldn't be playing music if she thought you were asleep. So she knew you were awake. So you should probably get up and go help with breakfast or something but you just… couldn't… even remotely force yourself to do that right now. Even as your brain told your body it was time to get up, not a single nerve ending reacted to the command. In a few minutes she would probably come and knock at your door. She'd crack it open and peek her head in, and ask if you were okay. You didn't want her to do that either. You didn't want to tell her that you weren't okay. That you were thinking again. That you were miserable because you couldn't do anything about anything and you felt like your life was falling apar-

There was a knock. But it wasn't at your door. You turned your head to the side, facing the wall with the pictures again, as if trying to see through it to the front door. Neither of you were expecting visitors, especially not this early ("early"). Package maybe? There was another clatter from the kitchen, followed by the music being turned down slightly. You couldn't hear much over the swell Vivaldi's Spring, but you could tell that your mother had answered the front door, and she was speaking to someone. The conversation lasted only a few minutes, before the front door shut again, followed by the shuffling of slippered feet down the hall. Moments later, there was a gentle rap at you own door, and you sat up quickly in your bed.

"Gwen, honey?" came your mother's sleep-scratchy voice. Predictable as ever, she opened the door just enough to peer inside, her chestnut waves piled up on top of her head with a great big clip, and wearing her favorite kimono-style dressing gown. She was the picture of lazy elegance, and it would have been a perfect snapshot of a typical morning in your home, were it not for the apprehensive look gracing her face. That was new, and it made your heart pound wildly. Belby and Lockhart hadn't been the only horrible men in the news lately… Hadn't there been a breakout from Azkaban recently…?

Moving quickly, you scrambled out of bed, immediately reaching for your wand before stepping toward the door. "What is it?" you whispered nervously, grabbing your own plain grey dressing gown from the back of your desk chair and pulling it on over your sleep shorts and tank top. You were just getting ready to summon your shoes when you felt your mothers hand on your shoulder, and your head snapped up to find her smiling ruefully.

"I didn't mean to spook you," she whispered apologetically, rubbing your upper arm to try and soothe away your anxiety. You felt slightly more relieved by this contrition, but you craned your neck to try and see past her just the same. You couldn't determine much through the crack in the door, and she pulled your attention back with a gentle shake of your elbow. "There's someone from Hogwarts here to see you," she explained quietly, and all thoughts of Sirius Black vanished as you felt all of your internal organs plummet to the ground.

"Who?" you asked hoarsely, pulling your dressing gown a little tighter around yourself. You felt like you were on the verge of swooning, caught somewhere between giddy excitement and absolute terror. There was no way… no fucking way-

"He's got a funny name," Vivian whispered again, shrugging apologetically as she looked over her shoulder towards the living room. "I wouldn't get it right if I tried. But he's one of the teachers I met when I-"

You pulled the door open quickly and slipped past her into the hallway. Even with your head swimming and your heart trying to throb its way up your esophagus, you dashed towards the living room fervently, your bare feet thudding on the carpeted floor.

'I'd like to congratulate you in person.'

Had he really come to see you? After three years, were you finally going to get to see him again outside of a memory? You'd been fantasizing about this moment for literal months, and while it usually didn't involve you being barefoot in your pajamas with bed-head, you couldn't allow yourself to think too hard about this. Even though you were ashamed of yourself and embarrassed in advance, you just wanted to see him. You could feel terrified tears stinging the back of your eyes as you rounded the corner into your living room.

You had to clutch the back of the tweed couch to keep from just totally keeling over. Placing a hand against your chest, you could feel your pulse racing against your fingertips, could feel the sick feeling creeping up your throat. Your brain hadn't quite caught up with the rest of your body, and you stuttered uncouthly as you croaked, "Puh… Professor Dumbledore?"

Albus Dumbledore stood in the center of your living room, wearing a set of pristine lavender robes and looking thoughtful as he gazed at a collection of framed watercolors hanging above the turntable. Vivaldi was still pouring from the speakers with misplaced joviality, and the whole tableau was nothing short of surreal. Despite his unexpected presence in your childhood home, he also looked surprisingly like he belonged there. The glittering silver stars on his robes and the beads dangling from the ribbon in his beard fit right in among your mother's eclectic décor of antique constellation globes and expansive collection of crystals and taxidermy.

Dumbledore smiled serenely over his half-moon spectacles as he turned his attention to you, before raising a thin, knobby finger towards the art on the wall. "Did you paint these yourself?" he asked pleasantly, indicating the watercolors. "They're quite charming." They were all pictures of the same red and white spotted mushroom you'd made when you were about seven, each with slight variations as you'd tried to get the mushroom perfect, experimenting with color and saturation. You'd done it over and over until you'd gotten it right, but Vivian had framed and hung each and every one anyway. She said she liked seeing the artistic process in action.

"Uhm. Yes, I did. Thank you?" you muttered, unsure of what else to say. It was dawning on you now, the absurdity of the situation. Albus (freakin') Dumbledore was standing in your home, admiring 14 year old art work, and looking for all the world like he'd just popped in for a spot of tea. Beyond the utter confusion, you also felt a wash of shame over just how stupid excited you'd gotten when you thought it had been… someone else. And your mother wasn't helping. You could see her out of the corner of your eye, giggling in the hallway with her hand over her mouth. Vile woman. She probably did that on purpose. You needed to get a handle on the situation.

Stepping around the couch, you stood before your old Headmaster, drawing his attention away from your ancient paintings once again. "Pardon me, Professor, but… what exactly are you doing here?" you asked bluntly, and were surprised to see the old man's face light up with recollection. Like he'd just remembered why he'd come in the first place.

"Oh, my dear. I'm ever so sorry," Dumbledore laughed genially. "Where are my manners?" He clapped one of those boney hands onto your shoulder. "We have much to discuss! And there's no time like the present." Looking up over the top of your head (you never realized just how tall Dumbledore really was before now), he smiled warmly to your mother, who had finally exited the hallway after having managed to compose herself. "Would it be too much trouble to ask for a cup of tea, Miss Goode?"

You jolted slightly at the name, but remembered that yeah, your mum was also Miss Goode. She was smiling lopsidedly, as though simultaneously impressed by this old man's gall, and mildly offended at being called 'Miss Goode'. But your mother wasn't a bartender for nothing, and she quickly slipped back into the role of perfect hostess. "Not at all. And please, it's Vivian." She stepped through the living room on her way to the kitchen, turning down the music even further, until it became pleasant background noise. "Why don't you have a seat, while I make up a tray," she suggested, motioning towards the single tweed armchair that matched the couch.

Dumbledore smiled graciously and nodded his assent. "That would be lovely, Vivian. Thank you very much." Nodding politely as she made her way into the kitchen, she threw you a meaningful look before disappearing behind the beaded curtain that separated the rooms. Using the hand still clasped on to your shoulder, Dumbledore steered you towards the couch, and you sat down obediently as he settled himself into the arm chair. It was comically low to the ground for someone with such long legs, his knees almost coming to his chest as he plopped down into it, but he made absolutely no complaint as he settled comfortably against the cushions. This was absurd.

"Professor…" you started to ask, but Dumbledore cut you off, raising a placating hand to beg your silence.

"Yes, yes, my dear. I'll be direct. My reasons for being here are threefold," Dumbledore explained pleasantly, but his words only worried you further. What kind of business could Albus Dumbledore possibly have with you? This was the first time you'd ever really spoken to him one on one. Even when your mother had visited the school after the Lockhart incident, he'd mostly talked to her. He appeared quite determined to speak to you now, though.

"Firstly, I'd like to congratulate you on the success of the Wolfsbane Potion," he stated formally, and you felt something catch in your chest. You'd… honestly never heard those words, from anyone. Not anyone within the magical community, anyway. Because no one knew. So how… "Professor Snape told me you worked extremely hard on it," he continued, as if reading your mind with no more than a passing glance. "And I'm sorry to hear that Damocles Belby let his greed get the better of him."

You sat in dumbfounded silence for several moments, your arms wrapping themselves tightly around your stomach in an attempt to hold yourself together. So he knew because of Severus… You always suspected that he kept Dumbledore abreast of your talent while you were in school; it's how you'd caught the eye of Horace Slughorn after all. But he… continued to talk about you? Even now that you were gone? You felt your face warming up despite your best efforts, but you offered Dumbledore a small, but genuine smile of gratitude. "Thank you, sir," you answered quietly, and he smiled warmly in reply.

"Of course, my dear. Now!" Dumbledore raised a finger, as if marking off an invisible check list. "This leads quite naturally into my second reason for coming." He leaned forward now, his smile falling slightly with the gravity of his next words. "As I'm sure you well know, we've recently lost our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor to a rather unfortunate accident involving a backfired memory charm." You winced slightly, but nodded. The truth of Gilderoy Lockhart's fraudulence and his subsequent amnesia was still making headline news as more details of his deception emerged. You were indeed well informed of the situation, and Dumbledore did you both a favor by not resuming any further on that particular train of thought.

"I have a new professor lined up to take the position," Dumbledore explained, and the sudden sharp and serious look that hardened his features had you sitting up a little straighter. "However, what I am about to tell you is extremely sensitive information, Miss Goode, so I'd rather it not leave this room." Your mouth fell open slightly, but your nodded immediately. It wasn't like you had anyone to be telling secrets to anyway. Dumbledore nodded his ascent before explaining, "This new professor happens to be a werewolf."

You started slightly, your body twitching at this revelation. On one hand, it shocked you that Dumbledore would be willing to hire someone with one of the most dangerous and stigmatized conditions in the wizarding world to teach children. But on the other hand… it also didn't shock you at all. You always got the impression that Dumbledore was the sort of man who took care of strays.

"I have no doubt he will be an excellent man for the job," Dumbledore continued after allowing you a few moments to process. "However, his employment hinges on him being able to control his lycanthropy during the full moon." Ah. Now everything was coming together. You nodded slowly with your perceived understanding, and Dumbledore finally allowed a touch of a smile to reach his eyes again. "What I need to know from you, is if this potion will render a werewolf harmless enough to be considered safe to live among the student body of Hogwarts. Professor Snape tells me he has no doubt about the potion's effectiveness, but I'd really like to hear it directly from someone who's seen its effects in person, and who has worked with werewolves first hand."

The mention of Professor Snape and his confidence in your potion had your face warming up again, but you nodded more enthusiastically as you considered his words. "Absolutely, sir," you began, but you were both momentarily distracted as your mother re-entered the room from the kitchen, carrying a tray with a rustic looking brown tea pot, handmade earthen Japanese style cups, and a plate of crescent cakes. She placed the tray on the side table nestled between the couch and arm chair, before nodding to Dumbledore and winking at you with her lopsided smile before retreating to the kitchen with a rattle of beaded curtains. There were only two cups on the tray.

"The… Wolfsbane Potion is designed to give a werewolf complete control of their mental faculties," you continued to explain, taking it upon yourself to pour tea into both cups. Dumbledore held up a hand to tell you when to stop, and you slid over the small carafe of milk, as well as the honey jar. "A transformed werewolf under the effects of the Wolfsbane Potion has all the same control over themselves as an Animagus." You hoped this would be a useful comparison, because in truth, you weren't actually sure of how much control that actually was, as you weren't an Animagus yourself. But you knew Professor McGonagall was, and you'd never seen her dashing off through hallways chasing rats.

You picked up your mug, warming your fingers against it instead of actually drinking from it. "I'm not going to tell you that it renders a werewolf completely harmless. Their bite still has the potential to turn someone, even if it's accidental. But if he takes the potion exactly as instructed, and he stays isolated during his transformation, I'm talking locked doors and protego charms and security wards and everything, so that no one can get in, and he cannot get out until morning… I…" You hesitated, staring down into the greyish liquid cooling in your cup. It didn't feel like your place to be saying all of this. You couldn't be held responsible if something did go horribly wrong. But you believed in the work you had done. You lifted your head and looked Dumbledore in the eyes with a fierce sense of determination. "I feel reasonably comfortable telling you that he wouldn't be a danger to your staff or your students."

Dumbledore was idly stirring his tea with a small spoon as he considered you. But you could see his eyes twinkling, see that hint of a smile deepening the wrinkles around his eyes. And you smiled back. You had a feeling you'd said exactly what he'd wanted to hear, and it filled you with something like pride. "Thank you, sir, for giving a werewolf a chance, and treating him like a normal human being," you said suddenly, overwhelmed by this man's generosity. You remembered Desma, how she'd been living off of her meager savings since she'd been turned, unable to find any gainful employment, except to allow herself to become a test subject for an experimental potion. You wanted so much more for her. And if someone as influential as Albus Dumbledore was willing to take a chance on employing a werewolf, maybe the public eye was shifting yet. "The whole reason I wanted to work on this potion was to help people, like your Defense Professor… I'm finally starting to feel like I might have actually managed to do that."

Dumbledore's smile finally reached his lips now, a pleased look settling into the lines of his face as he sipped from his cup. "I believe you certainly have done so, Miss Goode. Your motivations have always been quite admirable, and once again I commend you for your efforts." Placing his cup back onto the tray, he took up one of the crescent cakes and dipped the tip of it into his tea before taking a bite. His silver eyelashes fluttered, and you couldn't help but smile. That was the best reaction to have to crescent cakes. "Perhaps it's not such a shame that things did not work out with Belby. The man was a fool to turn away such a kind and courageous Hufflepuff." Your brows pressed together at the odd sort of compliment you'd just received, but you managed to keep your smile intact as the man polished off the small biscuit. It was still a compliment, after all. Brushing a few crumbs from his beard, Dumbledore leveled you with his piercing blue gaze. And smirked. "I, however, am not such a fool. Which is why my third reason for being here, is to offer you a teaching position at Hogwarts."

Your mouth fell open quite completely this time, and you heard a small squeak from the direction of the kitchen. You both glanced over to see the beaded curtains swaying slightly, and Dumbledore smiled indulgently at your mothers eavesdropping. His distraction gave you enough time to try and process this surprise, because frankly, it didn't make any fucking sense. Your heart rate picked up as Dumbledore turned to face you again, and you blurted out the first thing that popped into your head. "Isn't Professor Snape still-"

"Oh! No, no, not Potions, my dear," Dumbledore interrupted you before you could even finish, a chuckle bubbling up from him. "I dare say, I thought you might be a little sick of potions by now. Professor Snape is indeed still the Potions Master at Hogwarts." At this, the old man actually winked at you, and you felt your face burn scarlet. But he didn't expand upon his actions, or even acknowledge them, but simply continued on. "No, you came highly recommended as being a potential candidate for teaching Muggle Studies. Charity Burbage hadn't intended to keep the position for quite this long following Professor Quirrell, so there's an opening."

Your confusion only deepened, and you set your cup back on the tray for fear it might shake out of your hand. Who the hell had recommended you? You weren't even remotely fit for this. Besides the fact that you had no idea how to teach, you'd never even taken the course. Because why would you? You didn't even know what was taught in Muggle Studies. Was it a Sociology class? Anthropology? Or more like history, or science? You were absently cracking your knuckles against your lap, a nervous fidget you'd never worked yourself out of, but stopped immediately upon the first loud pop, startling yourself out of your thoughts. "I'm afraid I don't understand," you finally admitted, looking up sheepishly from your twisting hands. "I… I don't know why you would think I'm qualified to teach at Hogwarts. I never took Muggle Studies and I-"

Dumbledore held up a hand to quiet you, and you obeyed, your eyes never leaving his as he smiled patiently. "I don't believe taking the class is a requirement for being able to teach it, seeing as how you live it. You've had 21 years of experience, correct?" You huffed out a short laugh, smiling warily as you nodded your head. You couldn't argue with that, and Dumbledore certainly didn't want you to. He was tracing his moustache with his long fingers now, considering you with a rather scrutinizing look. "I was also told that you tutored Mr. Lawrence Hollingsworth through his O.W.L.'s and N.E.W.T.'s to great success, seeing as he's well on his way to becoming an Auror now. So I have no doubt of your ability to teach either." You blushed again at that, for several reasons. But you'd never thought of it that way. You… supposed you had taught Lawrence quite a bit. And you'd been teaching Desma for the last few months as well. You never thought you'd had a knack for teaching but…

Dumbledore could clearly see the wheels in your head turning, and the fact that you were even taking the time to think about it seemed to be all he needed. Reaching deep into the pockets of his lavender robes, he extracted what looked like two tiny squares of chocolate. But upon casting an engorgement charm, they turned out to be two rather large books, which he placed on the low coffee table before the couch. "I took it upon myself to bring the lesson plans developed by both Quirinus Quirrell and Charity Burbage for you to look over. You're welcome to adapt and change them as you please, of course. Muggle Studies is a very broad subject, after all." He said all of this with a maddeningly tranquil smile, like he was giving you a choice, but not really, because he knew you had already made your choice. Despite this perceived smugness, he was also looking at you with an incredible amount of fondness and warmth. "I thought this might be a nice change for you, Miss Goode. Leave the whole business with Belby behind, and give you something productive to do in the meantime."

You stared down at the books, trying to absorb all of this. That… was a very kind offer, and you recognized it as such. It would be a nice change of pace. How hard could it be? You wouldn't have to worry about trying to find a job in the potions field any more. Didn't have to settle for a stagnant apothecary job, or allow yourself to be fucked over by another shitty Potions Master with grand ambitions. Maybe you could even do your own research on the side. Hadn't Snape said something like that in your fifth year?

Snape…

"Who recommended me?" you asked suddenly, looking up from the books to Dumbledore, who was finishing the last of his tea. Your heart was pounding in your chest as you considered the implications of all of this. You could see him again. You could work with him again. You might… might even…

Dumbledore's answer was another wink, accompanied with an enigmatic smile as he hoisted himself out of the low arm chair. You winced as you heard his bones crack and pop, but he otherwise seemed unaffected as he smoothed out his robes. "Term starts on the first of September, as I'm sure you know," he replied cheerfully, completely ignoring your enquiry as he tented his long, thin fingers against his midsection. "If you accept the position, I invite you to arrive to the castle two weeks prior. That will give you some time to settle in and reacquaint yourself with the castle. Do you accept?"

You started, sitting up straight but making no move to stand as well. This was all happening very suddenly, and you felt a little thrill of dread and excitement course through your chest. "Do I have to make the decision right now?" you asked cautiously, and the way his smile persisted didn't soothe you at all.

"Do you really need to think about it, Miss Goode?" he asked simply, before holding one of those pale, boney hands out for you to take.

You stared at it, your head swimming again as you tried to rush through your options. But what options did you have, really? You could stay here and wallow your life away in self-pity before getting a dead end job you were going to hate.

Or you could go back to Hogwarts.

Why were you even thinking about this?

"I suppose I don't," you answered finally, your voice quivering as you accepted his proffered hand. His grip was surprisingly strong as he helped to pull you up out of your seat, and he held your hand lightly as he waited expectantly. "Yes, I accept."

He clasped your hands with both of his, shaking it enthusiastically. "Splendid! Just splendid. Hogwarts will be thrilled to have you back within its halls, I am sure of it." Releasing your hand, he fished around in his robes once again, this time extracting a gold pocket watch. You weren't particularly surprised to find that it had twelve hands, and planets instead of numbers. That… just seemed like a perfectly normal Dumbledore thing to have. "I'll see you on the 17th or thereabouts," he said, before slipping the watch back into his robes. "You're welcome to take the Hogwarts Express if you like, or you may simply Apparate to Hogsmeade. Whichever you find most convenient."

You were doing your own time keeping in your head, and you had an abrupt realization as you considered your early arrival and the start of term. The words spilled out of you before you could stop them. "The new Defense professor… Will he be arriving early too?" you asked, trying not to sound too eager about it. "There will be a full moon the day before term begins. I could possibly-"

"I believe Professor Lupin has opted to work out that transformation in the comfort of his own home," Dumbledore cut in quickly. He was very good at interrupting you. Or perhaps at reading your mind. "He'll be arriving on the first with the rest of the students." You deflated slightly, as you were rather eager to meet this man. Or, at least, eager to meet a werewolf you hadn't been working with for three years. You were a little ashamed to admit that you wanted to know how other werewolves felt about the potion you'd helped to create. But you figured you'd still get to chance to speak with him about it. You'd be coworkers, after all.

Dumbledore's face went rather serious then, and you swallowed thickly with trepidation. "I'm certain I don't need to swear you to secrecy on this matter, Miss Goode. But keep in mind that the only ones who know of Remus Lupin's affliction are myself, the House Heads, and a scant handful of other professors." You frowned slightly, but nodded. You had no intention of revealing anyone's secrets. Especially not one so dire. Dumbledore continued. "No student is to know. And given that parents are already extremely on edge about the recent breakout of Sirius Black, I don't wish to give them any more reason to panic." His face fell in to weariness then, and he lifted a hand to squeeze your shoulder, giving his words emphasis. "Even with your brilliant potion rendering him harmless, I'd rather not risk the exposure, you understand?"

You nodded again. "Of course, sir," you assured him. You'd been working with werewolves long enough. You knew they kept their affliction close to the chest if they could help it. The stigma was suffocating, and none of them deserved it. You quietly promised yourself you would do everything in your power to help this Remus Lupin, if only to soothe your own heart. You had to keep helping them any way you could.

Dumbledore's smile returned, but it looked tired and a little worn. Still, he squeezed your shoulder once more. "Do you have any more questions for me?" he asked patiently, but you immediately shook your head. You didn't wish to hold him up any longer.

"No, I don't think so," you replied, and he slowly slid his hand from your shoulder, patting your arm instead. You laughed, for no other reason than your brain couldn't tell if it wanted to laugh or cry. Laughter always seemed to be the default. "I… Well!" you huffed, rubbing your tired face. "I guess I'll see you on the 17th then." You smiled awkwardly. "Or thereabouts."

But Dumbledore didn't seem to mind your odd outbursts. He simply smiled placidly, before taking up your hand again, shaking it cordially. "It's an honor to have you on my staff, Professor Goode," he assured you, and you laughed again at the change in title. Professor Goode! Had a nice ring to it. You would start reading those lesson plans immediately, you decided. You already felt a weight lift from your back, now that you actually had something to do. Maybe your future wasn't completely in the mud after all.

You squeezed the man's hand in return, this time taking his hand in both of yours. "Thank you very much, Headmaster," you intoned, hoping he could feel the gratitude behind your words. He was giving you a second chance to prove yourself in this miserable wizarding world. You didn't want to disappoint him. And you didn't think you would be disappointed working under him, either.

Patting your hands genially, Dumbledore finally released his grip on yours, taking a step back from you and clasping his hands behind his back. "Please, call me Albus. We're colleagues, now, after all."

You smiled delightedly at that. Belby had insisted upon calling him Professor. Sometimes even Master. Albus Dumbledore was already a far cry from that bastard, and for the first time in months, you were actually looking forward to something. "Albus, then."

He gave you one last twinkling smile, before sweeping one last wistful glance over your mushroom paintings. "Well now, I'll be off. Enjoy the rest of your summer, my dear," he suggested merrily. Stepping towards the beaded curtain, he called softly into the kitchen, "Thank you for your hospitality, Vivian." And you had to stifle a giggle as you heard another guilty squeak, before your mother appeared in the door way, just in time to watch Dumbledore reach the front door.

"Any time!" she called back with a wave, and just like that, your apartment was quiet again, but for Vivaldi shifting gently from Summer to Autumn. You stood, staring at the front door with your arms wrapped tightly around your stomach, trying to keep yourself from just completely rattling apart. Your mirth had suddenly dissolved away, and all that was left was an odd sort of coldness. You were getting a fresh start, and you were ecstatic. But it was also terrifying. Starting again was terrifying because you were afraid of getting hurt again.

There was a shift beside you, and suddenly your mother's arms were around you too. You buried your face in her shoulder, and let your warring emotions spill onto her imitation silk dressing gown. She shushed you soothingly, petting her hand over your thick waves as she cooed, "You did so good, 'Lyn. So good. He's right, this is going to be good for you." She gently pushed on your shoulders, and you looked up at her, tears streaming down your freckled cheeks. She smiled apologetically as she wiped them away with the sleeve of her robe, before grasping your cheeks and smooshing them slightly, making them puff out and forcing you to smile against your will. "And you get to go back, baby! Back into the magic world. And back to Hogwarts!" She leaned forward, placing a kiss on your forehead as she released her hold on your face. "You were always so happy when you were there."

And though your tears did not abet, you were still smiling through them. Because she was right. You always were most happy while you were at school. For years you had spent the semesters pining to come back home, to this little apartment with your mother, but the truth was that over time, Hogwarts had started feeling like home too. Because in both places, there was an incredible sense of safety, security, and love.

So you were going home.

Home, to Hogwarts.

Home, to him.