Chapter 5: Old Faces

Dusk was falling as Harry Potter—officially known as Harry Crockett, according to the Ministry of Magic and Gringotts bank—apparated into Knockturn Alley from his flat in London. After magically creating himself an identity, he proceeded to invest all of the thousand galleons of his auror's kit money in various wizarding businesses that he knew would do well. He had never been very good at history, but he knew which broom companies did well, and which stores lasted. Wizards were usually in need of venture capitalists.

He made a lot of money very quickly and after a year and a half, no one could possibly guess that he'd been living in a forest.

Harry spent some of his money on his modest flat in London, and more on robes and other clothing items. He had tried to conjure his own clothing, but they always ended up blobby and wrong. He didn't have a clear enough understanding of fashion and clothing design to know what he wanted to conjure without seeing it first. He purchased a large quantity of swishy black robes and cloaks, some robes and cloaks of various colors that the shopkeepers said looked good on him ("green, to match your eyes, dear…and blue contrasts with your hair…and dark red to…"), a few scarves, black gloves of leather, dragon hide, and silk, a large collection of very warm socks, and some new boots.

He deposited the rest of his money into Gringotts, not needing to spend any on magical supplies. He could conjure those.

He made an effort to appear normal, and worked at reincorporating himself into the wizarding community (mostly through consumerism). He had learned to control his auras so that if he was concentrating, others wouldn't feel their influence. His physical appearance was as Pottery as it normally was, but he had kept his scar hidden, and, after his initial disguise, had decided that he liked being taller. He now stood at about five foot ten, had a shock of black hair, and his green eyes sparkled behind his glasses. He could have fixed his eyesight, but his glasses comforted him, somehow, and reminded him that he was human despite all his changes.

His time was fairly unstructured. He received the occasional owl from his business correspondents to which he needed to respond, but he spent most of his time honing his magical and aura-related skills in empty fields and unoccupied woods.

On this particular summer day in 1957, however, he was visiting Knockturn Alley to prove a theory. He could have proven it from anywhere using his magic, really, but to err on the side of caution, he decided to do it the old aura-free way. Though he believed his magic would be unmatched if it came to a duel, his theory involved someone who's magic was advanced enough that he believed he was risking detection. So, he shielded himself up with his newly invented branch of aura-occulumency that he had been practicing for the past year, and apparated into the dusky alley. Peering through the darkness, he located Borgin and Burkes, the dark arts shop, and slunk towards it. Before entering, he glanced through the window and chuckled. He had been right.

There was no bell on the door, but the door squeaked eerily as Harry entered. Harry intentionally panned his gaze very slowly across the room before resting it calmly on the man behind the desk, who clearly looked like he was trying to intimidate the nonexistent customers. Harry calmly grinned as he met the red eyes. Harry was sure that no one had ever grinned happily at Lord Voldemort before, let alone calmly, but Harry was unworried and feeling strangely sentimental about his old foe. Voldemort, for his part, kept the shock off his face well at having someone react to him so normally, but Harry could tell from his body language that he was unnerved.

Voldemort smiled back at Harry, and wrinkled his nose (for he still had a nose) indulgently, as if Harry's smile had just made his gosh darn day. "How do you do, sir?" he asked, mockingly cheerful.

"Very well, very well," chuckled Harry, "and how're you today, Mr. Riddle?"

"Fin—how did you know my name?" Voldemort asked suspiciously.

"Your name tag," said Harry, smirking. A name tag appeared on Voldemort's robes.

"I'm not wear…oh," said Voldemort, looking down at his chest, and then glaring up at Harry, embarrassment and suspicion making his eyes glow red.

Harry was enjoying the conversation. There was just something immensely satisfying about messing with the young and comparatively helpless version of the guy who killed you and everyone you considered family. Harry wasn't thinking of revenge; it was more out of sport or amusement. He had already taken his revenge when he killed Voldemort and his horcruxes when he was seventeen. He had no need for stressful vengeful thoughts.

He didn't think that messing with Voldemort was going to stress him out, though. He thought it would be lots of fun. He was right.

"So, what's a talented young man like you doing in a place like this?" he asked, and winked, just for good measure.

Voldemort widened his eyes in disbelief, but answered darkly, "Biding my time."

"Biding your time?" repeated Harry, incredulous. He'd known Voldemort had an ego, but he didn't know it was big enough to use super-villain clichés like, "biding my time."

"Till what?" asked Harry.

Voldemort had been staring dreamily off into space, but snapped back to reality at Harry's words.

"I'm going to be the Defense against the Dark Arts teacher next year at Hogwarts," he said, mumbling the words "defense" and "against."

Harry's stomach lurched unpleasantly. "No, you're not," he said, before he could stop himself, smiling just a little.

"What did you say?" asked Voldemort, feigning deafness for the sake of drama.

"Ah, um, I was asking about…" he searched around frantically "this object!" He pointed randomly, and his finger landed lamely on the Hand of Glory. Wow, Harry thought, Draco must have had really bad taste if it took over fifty years for this to sell.

"That," said Voldemort coldly, "is the Hand of Glory. Who are you?"

"My name's Harry Crockett," replied Harry, with a grin that drew fully on his concealed hat aura. Voldemort gave Harry what he could only describe as "the evil eye."

Harry proceeded to ask Voldemort about nearly every item in the shop, testing his tangibly limited patience. He left without buying anything with a wink and an overly cheery smile (which he had to fake this time), just to irritate Voldemort.

Harry apparated back to his flat, and set down his bag. His stomach was still riling uncomfortably, and Voldemort's statement kept echoing in his mind…I'm going to be Defense against the Dark Arts teacher next year at Hogwarts.

And then Harry knew what he wanted, and what was bothering him. He, Harry, wanted to be the Defense against the Dark Arts teacher. Though Harry knew that Voldemort wouldn't get the spot, the thought of anyone but Harry, and especially Voldemort, taking the job made Harry squirm. He knew that Hogwarts was where he belonged, and teaching Defense against the Dark Arts was what he was meant to do. He wondered why he had never thought of it before.

Now that he had figured out his destiny of choice, all that was left was to actually get the job. Harry looked through his unread stack of Prophets until he found the job advertisement, published earlier that summer of 1957.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
is in need of a
Professor for the Defense against the Dark Arts.
Room and board will be provided.
Pay will be minimal. What do you expect? It's a teaching job.
Express interest by owl addressed to Albus Etc. Dumbledore, Headmaster.

Harry searched though his apartment for a quill and parchment, but gave up and conjured some.

Professor Dumbledore,

I am interested in filling your Defense against the Dark Arts position for the coming school year.

Harry wrote some of his qualifications, including his ability to form a fully corporeal patronus, and finished off the letter.

If this is satisfying, am available for an interview at your convenience.

Best regards,

Harry Crockett

Harry rolled up the letter, sealed it with wax weirdly poured out of his finger. He'd intended it to be red wax, but it came out sky blue and Harry found himself too lazy to change it.

Dumbledore, Dumbledore, Harry thought. The man who taught and mentored him. The man who kept him on his path. The man whom he had watched die. If all went well, Harry would be seeing him soon.

Behind him, he heard a soft crack.

He whirled around searching for the source of the noise with his eyes, and reached out with his auras. All of his auras. All seven. The Egg.

The Egg!

Harry darted over to the auror bag, and carefully snatched the red Egg out of it. He inspected it with his eyes, and closed his eyes and, to his surprise, felt sensations coming through his aura from within the egg. From within it, he felt a radiating and indefinable love, but the aura wasn't as accessible as his others. Using his eyes, he saw a crack. As he watched it, the crack grew and spread and branched, until there was an island of shell wobbling precariously on... Then, and without warning, violent orange flames consumed the egg, and hid it from view.

Harry was momentarily shocked, but began to grin in awe as he realized that he could still feel the aura. The flames faded into a grey pile of ashes. An ugly grey head with greasy yellow and red feathers came poking out of the ashes. Harry's grin widened, and his heart filled up with emotion.

"Well," he said barely containing his excitement, "welcome to the world, Fawkes."

A/N for Purists: I did a lot of research for this chapter for timeline stuff. The timeline for the job stuff is correct.