Edited 11/22/22


Two

The Interview

Harry's resistance to rest lasted only as long as the trip up the creaky stairs to the room he had rented under duress.

He unlocked the door with Arabella's brass key and took a brief inventory. It was a tidy room, if small. There was a shallow wooden bureau with a washbasin and bucket, a small sooty fireplace, a chair that looked like it had been abducted from one of the tables below, and a bed with clean white sheets. It had two pillows.

Harry shut the door behind him and sat on the bed. The mattress was stuffed straw, and he could feel it shift on the straps between the bedframe, but he didn't care. It was soft. And his stomach was full to bursting. And so he pressed his face into the down-stuffed pillows and slept.

The sun was high and was spitting yellow-white through the half-shuttered window when Harry woke. It took him a moment to gather his bearings. It was the fireplace that did it. He hadn't slept in a room with a fireplace in months. Harry was in the Hog's Head Inn. He sat up, wiping half-dried drool from his cheek. His watch said it was just after eleven. But he couldn't have slept for only four hours. He crossed to the door, intending to ask Arabella how long he'd been out when he saw that a fresh copy of the Daily Prophet had been slid under the door for him. He snatched it up.

A whole day.

It was the thirtieth of August. Harry dropped the newspaper in frustration. The term started in two days and he'd fancied a nap and it had ended up a day-long sleep.

"He died for this," Harry muttered to himself. "Not for you to have a rest."

He could rest when he'd given the same as Albus Dumbledore had.

Harry lit the fire in the small fireplace with a hurried spell and stacked a few pieces of roughly split wood onto the grate. There was a small dish of grainy black powder on the mantle. He paused, staring at it. He would rather not have to travel by Floo, but there were few ways he could arrange a face-to-face meeting with Professor Dumbledore in this time period, and Harry couldn't fathom a way, at the moment, to explain his sudden appearance at the castle gates. Nor could he just send his Patronus to seek out the professor. Professor Dumbledore would likely be suspicious, and an explanation coming from the mouth of a spectral silver stag would certainly be met with more skepticism than if he were to explain the situation in person.

So no matter how much he hated seeing the fire turn green, Harry took a pinch of powder from the dish and tossed it in, calling, "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

He stuck his head into the fireplace... and peered out into the cavernous room that served as the Hogwarts kitchen. "Bugger."

Harry sighed. But where else had he expected to turn up? Another reason he disliked traveling by fire. You had to be very specific with the Floo.

The kitchens easily matched the Great Hall in size, but instead of the four long House tables that ran the length of the room above, there was what looked like a cookware parody of the countryside laid out across the floor. Mountains of cast iron pots, metal pans, golden goblets, porcelain bowls, and a few little hills of silverware were strewn across the room.

A colony of tiny house-elves wound through the clutter, some clambering over and into the mounds to get at certain wares. Harry saw one of them grasp a cast iron frying pan twice the size of its lumpy head and slide down again. He snorted at the serious look on the elf's face. The little fellow held the pan high over his head and scurried off through a valley of pots.

Then came the pattering of bare feet on the flagstones and suddenly Harry's vision of the kitchen was obscured by a pair of luminous blue eyes and floppy bat-like ears.

"Tea, sir?" The squeaky voice of the house-elf gave him a start; Harry jerked himself away and collided with a massive tea kettle that was suspended over the fire next to his head.

"Bloody hell!" Eyes streaming, Harry tried to rub at his bruised skull. Far too late, he realized what he had done. There was the feeling of his gut being twisted and he was pulled bodily into the fire. He spun about several times and came crashing through the hearth in a hurricane wind of grimy robes and colorful swearwords.

"Gilly is sorry!" the squeaky-voiced house-elf cried out. "Gilly has given the young master a fright! Bad Gilly! Bad... Gilly!" The elf hurled itself to the ground beside Harry and began to smack its head into the stone.

"Stop," croaked Harry. His stomach heaved. Floo travel was the worst. The elf's squeals continued to grate on his ears. Harry shoved himself into a sitting position. The elf continued to wail and punish itself to the tune of, "Bad Gilly! Bad! Gilly!"

"Gilly, stop crying!" Harry grasped the elf's Hogwarts tea-towel tunic and pulled it into the air. Gilly flailed about for a moment longer, then froze. The elf turned its watery eyes to Harry, and he realized that Gilly was a girl. A tail of fine red hair was bound atop her head in a thick knot, and despite her bulbous, onion-shaped head, the elf's face had a decidedly feminine tilt to it. Nose leaking, Gilly wriggled from his grip and fell in a heap onto the floor.

"Gilly is very sorry to bother the young master. Gilly will stop crying now." And without warning, she pitched herself to his feet and began her punishment anew. Her face thudded into the flags, contorted, and turned a blotchy red as she struggled to keep from crying out. A few of the other elves paused in their scurrying to shake their heads at Gilly before resuming their work.

Harry sighed. "Stop punishing yourself, too."

"Yes, young master, at once!" The elf smacked her nose a final time and sat up, rubbing it with a palm. "Gilly will fetch the young master's tea now!" She took a deep breath, settled her food-stained tunic properly about her shoulders, and bounded off.

"I don't want..." Harry trailed off. The elf had pelted into a nearby pile of cups and was rapidly sorting through them. Gilly tossed a few tiny china pieces into another pile and gave a crow of triumph. She hurried over to the fireplace and filled a cup from the kettle that Harry had thumped with his head.

"Here you are, sir," squeaked Gilly. She proffered the cup. Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, but accepted it.

"Thank you, Gilly." The little elf's eyes widened and filled with water again. She tugged on her towel and bobbed a quick curtsy.

"Young master is very welcome," whispered Gilly, and then loudly added, "Gilly will get the young master something to break his fast!"

"No!" Harry reached out to grab Gilly's tunic before she could speed off. "Gilly, listen to me. I don't want any breakfast."

"Yes, sir. Lunch, then! We have very tasty sandwiches!"

"No," said Harry firmly. "Not lunch, either."

"Then Gilly will launder the young master's clothes!"

"No—wait—you could clean up my robes?" asked Harry. Gilly nodded her head furiously; her huge ears flapped about, smacking her around the skull. Harry loosened his grip on the mad elf's uniform. He was quite disheveled. "Er, all right then, Gilly."

The house-elf screwed her face up and snapped her fingers. The dirt, grass, and dust vanished from his clothes and robes alike. A scent of fresh pine rose from the fabric. Harry smiled. He patted her head.

"Nice one."

"Gilly is happy to help, young master." The elf flashed a toothy grin up at him and Harry was reminded forcefully of Dobby. Seizing the thought, Harry crouched to her level and beckoned her closer.

"Gilly," he said. The little elf's eyes grew wide and she scampered forward so close that her large nose nearly butted into his eye. Harry nudged her back a few paces. "Do you think you can find Professor Dumbledore for me? And when you do, could you tell him to meet me here? I have something urgent to tell him."

"Oh, sir..." Gilly wrung her hands and became suddenly interested in her toes. "Gilly is not supposed to be shirking her chores or leaving the kitchens... Headmaster Dippet will have Gilly flogged!" Her cheeks flashed red. "Again."

"Gilly," said Harry gently. "If I don't get to see Professor Dumbledore right away Hogwarts will be in terrible danger."

"Terrible danger?" Gilly repeated. "But young master, there is no other students here! Only professors, sir. And Professor Slughorn is only returned yesterday. There is no one here to be endangering."

"What about you and your friends here?" asked Harry with a little frown. He gestured at the troop of house-elves that streamed in and out of the cookware vale.

"Young master is too kind!" squeaked Gilly. "He must not worry about us! No one is ever noticing us down here. We are very good at not being noticed, sir! 'Tis the mark of good house-elves!"

"Yes, I'm sure of it, Gilly," said Harry. "But this is very, very important. Just a quick pop up to Professor Dumbledore's office, perhaps?"

Gilly seemed to struggle with the thought of it, until finally, with a resigned heave of her little chest, she nodded.

"Yes, sir." Crack! Gilly disappeared with a blink of her giant eyes.

"All right." Harry breathed deeply and slid down onto the floor. The scent of a delicious breakfast charged into his nostrils. He cast his gaze around the great room and watched the elves go about their cooking. A few more approached him now that Gilly had cleared off, squawking apologies for her behavior and offering platters of biscuits and plates of breakfast.

Something bubbled in his gut, though it was curious because he had stuffed himself quite full of Arabella's cooking the previous morning and didn't think he could fit another bite if he tried. Then Harry realized the bubbling, although it felt like it, wasn't hunger. Or rather it was not the same type of hunger. It was the feeling of an old and forgotten longing. It was the scent of the kitchens, the bright-eyed house-elves, the warmth of the hearth. It was Hogwarts, whole and alive, and he wanted to take it all and hold it there inside his chest.

He was home at last.

Gilly apparated before him with a sudden crack! The elves that were clamoring for Harry's attention let out high-pitched shrieks and stumbled away with their food.

"Young master, sir!" said Gilly, "Professor Dumbledore is not in the castle!"

Harry's heart flew into his throat and then plummeted right down into his bowels.

"What d'you mean, Gilly?" he demanded.

"Gilly is sorry!" she said, cringing at his tone. "Gilly has searched in Professor Dumbledore's sitting room, but Professor Dumbledore is not there! And then Gilly has gone into the professor's office, but Professor Dumbledore is also not there..."

"He could be somewhere else, you know," said Harry with a sigh. But Gilly was not done. Again she wrung her hands before her, and refused to meet Harry's eyes.

"Gilly has gone into the lavatory," she whispered. "But Professor Dumbledore is not there either, young master."

"Erm," said Harry. "You didn't have to go into the bathroom, Gilly. I meant that he could be elsewhere... in the castle." He gestured around at the kitchen.

The elf was now balling her tunic up in her hands, pulling it high enough that Harry could see the knobs that were her thin knees knocking together.

Harry sat upright. "What's the matter, Gilly?"

"Young master has shown great kindness to Gilly," she said. "Young master is afraid for Gilly's safety. Young master has even thanked Gilly. And so... and so... oh, Gilly is not wanting to do it, sir. But Gilly is having to do it!"

"Do what?" asked Harry, edging away from the little elf. Gilly just quaked.

"Do what, Gilly?" he repeated. But the elf didn't answer. Instead, she dove forward onto him and closed her fingers about the hem of his robes. In an expression of excruciating sorrow, Gilly blinked her great watery eyes.

The dark of apparition took them.

Harry had never apparated inside Hogwarts before, discounting the lessons he had attended a few years ago, so Gilly's betrayal, and choice of transport, came as a shock. As he slid through the darkness, he tried to imagine where the little elf was taking him. He didn't have to wait long. Just when he thought he could hold his breath no longer, the dark gave way to a stream of dusty sunlight, and Harry was thrown flat, faced with the pattern of a gaudy Persian rug. Pushing himself into a seated position, he cast about, searching for Gilly, and trying to determine where she had brought him.

It was a circular room, large, and crowded with ornate spindle-legged tables that were stacked with odd little trinkets. The walls were thick with portrait frames, their occupants wide-eyed and whispering. In front of him was the familiar oak desk with clawed feet. Above and behind, the Sorting Hat sat silent, asleep. Harry scrambled to his feet. He was in the Headmaster's Office.

Behind the desk that had belonged to Albus Dumbledore sat a man that Harry had only known from the portrait that hung beside the very same desk in the future. Though he was slightly different Harry saw. This Armando Dippet was a thick man with a strong face and a long, neatly squared gray beard. His eyes were nested in wrinkles but gleamed red-brown as he regarded Harry.

"Very good, elf. You may leave us," said Headmaster Dippet.

There was a squeak behind Harry, and he whirled to see Gilly trembling from head to foot. She stared up at him, forlorn, her eyes watering. She disapparated with another crack!

"Looking for Professor Dumbledore, were you?" called Headmaster Dippet.

Harry faced the man and nodded, mute.

"Here about the vacancy, then?" asked Headmaster Dippet. "You don't look much for it, though." He pressed one thick finger to his temple. "Though she doesn't tend to miss her mark when it comes to matters such as these." Dippet squinted at Harry. "Name?"

"Harry," said Harry, confused. A vacancy? And had Dippet just referred to Professor Dumbledore as... her?

"Surname?" said Headmaster Dippet, raising an eyebrow.

"Er... Potter," answered Harry lamely. He shifted from foot to foot under the man's gaze. He had been too hasty again, hadn't he? Caught up with finding Professor Dumbledore as quickly as he could to regain a sense of apprenticeship, to find someone to help him figure out what to do, he had again failed to come up with a logical backstory for himself in this foreign time. And what was this about Professor Dumbledore being a woman? Gilly's foray into the lavatory suddenly did not seem so outlandish. But it couldn't be.

"Potter," mused Headmaster Dippet. "Certainly not Fleamont's boy? The last I heard he had just been married." The man leaned forward across Professor Dumbledore's desk to inspect Harry further. "Potter... common enough name—Not one of ours, though. Where were you educated, boy?"

"Erm," said Harry, squirming. The only magic schools he knew were Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang, and he could not speak a lick of French or Russian. "At..."

"No shame in it," said Headmaster Dippet quietly. "Homeschooled is quite all right here, lad." He reclined in his chair and looked up at the sun climbing outside his window. "Plenty of wizards would rather keep their children close to home, times being what they are."

"Yeah," said Harry, relieved at his good luck. "I've been homeschooled."

"Well now that's sorted," said Headmaster Dippet, nodding. "How many O.W.L.s?"

"Seven," said Harry, latching hungrily onto a subject had had an answer for. "All but Divination and History. And Outstanding for Defence."

"And N.E.W.T.s?" asked Dippet, rubbing his chin.

Harry's mouth hung open.

He hadn't managed to take any of the Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests.

The wizarding world had erupted in open war by the end of his sixth year.

Here Harry was somehow being interviewed for some sort of vacancy at Hogwarts school, eighteen stupid years old, and with no credentials to speak of. What would he say to the man now? That he had hunted Horcruxes with the Order of the Phoenix? That he'd studied how to identify Inferi from a league off, that he could treat and poultice any manner of flesh wound, and could flay a wild boar with one flick of his wand?

"Ha!" cried Headmaster Dippet, his face wrinkling in a huge smile. "Dead on again," he said. "Relax, Mr. Potter. There are jobs for all sorts. Professor Dumbledore was quite right to recommend you; you haven't a need for newts."

"All right," said Harry hoarsely. He looked for a chair. Somewhere to sit. His head was atumble. He could hardly believe what was happening—and he had just time-traveled in from the year 1998.

"Yes, yes," said Headmaster Dippet. "Sit." He raised his wand and conjured a tall hard-backed wooden chair for Harry. "Eleven hundred galleons per year will do, I'm sure?"

Harry collapsed into the chair, staring openly at the old man. "Eleven hundred galleons?"

"Fine," grunted Dippet. "I'll go high as twelve, seeing as you are Dumbledore's, but not one red knut higher."

"That's... that's fine," said Harry through a distressed sigh. This whole thing had really gotten away from him, now. What vacancy could he possibly fill at Hogwarts, unqualified as he was? He couldn't be a professor. Harry didn't know how to teach children. How would he get them to behave, or copy down notes? How would he come up with homework assignments? And he had to get close to Tom Riddle. And Professor Dumbledore. What could he do? Gripped by a surge of fear, he sat up straight. "What is the post, Professor?"

"What's the post?" repeated Headmaster Dippet. "Professor Dumbledore didn't mention? I suppose it did open rather suddenly... and finding a suitable candidate in so short a time..." The man dug around in one of the drawers of his desk and came up with a huge keyring; there was hardly an empty enough space for him to hold it. He tossed the ring at Harry, who caught it reflexively. Dippet pulled another keyring from within his robes. This one was smaller and had only one key on it. He tossed it over as well.

Harry stared at them all, stunned. "You can't mean for me to be—" But again, this was the year when Hagrid had been expelled. His wand snapped. Convicted—wrongly—of murder.

"Yes! And not a moment too soon," said Headmaster Dippet, beaming. "So Harry Potter, will you accept? Will you be the Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts School?"

Grateful that he had been seated, Harry stared at the keys again, then at the headmaster. "Er, all right, then."