Mail typically arrived at 12 Grimmauld Place around half past ten in the morning. This was the perfect time for Remus Lupin. He could wake up, have a spot of breakfast, pop over to Islington and grab a muggle newspaper before heading into the dilapidated house used as Headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix.

Not that Remus spent much time there, but the Order was meeting today. So he settled down with a contented sigh in one of the dining table chairs holding the strange letter he had received earlier this morning. The tea kettle was warming and Mrs. Weasley was bustling around the kitchen. She had allowed him to place the kettle and then promptly kicked him out saying she'd bring the tea once it was ready.

The door opened and the distinct lack of screaming gave Remus a clue as to who it was. Few were capable of entering the house without awakening or offending her portrait. The odd off-beat thumping was the next clue, but it gave it all away.

In walked Alastor Moody. Grizzled face and surly expression, the man carelessly dumped the mail onto the dining table and limped into the kitchen.

"I'll have some of that tea, Molly," Moody said.

"You'll have to ask Remus. He's the one that put it on."

Moody grunted and turned an eye to Remus. He walked over to the dining table and sat so harshly in one of the chairs nearby Remus was sure it would collapse. To his surprise it did not collapse, and held firm as the man pushed aside the stack of mail in favor of the Daily Prophet at the bottom.

"You're welcome to a copy," Moody said, face obscured by the paper.

He needn't have said that; they always brought extras. Whoever was tasked with bringing in the mail that day brought in anywhere from two to four copies of the Daily Prophet so there were enough to go around. Usually they brought in more copies on the days they had meetings, so he wasn't surprised to see two more sitting untouched beside the short pile of envelopes and rolls of parchment.

Remus opened the envelope, curious as to who could be writing to him. He didn't receive much mail. The only people who would write to him were either entirely too busy to do so unless it were fairly important or had just recently escaped from Azkaban and saw him often enough to not need a letter to communicate. He couldn't help the tiny bubble of excitement build in his gut as he unfolded the paper. Last year he received a surprise letter as well. That time it had been Professor Dumbledore offering him the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts. He eagerly wondered at who wrote this one.

"What have you got there?" Sirius Black asked, sitting down in the chair next to him.

Remus looked up with an eyebrow raised. "A letter."

Sirius laughed. "Obviously," he said. "Who's it from?"

"I haven't opened it yet."

"Well, go ahead!" Sirius said excitedly.

That had drawn Moody's attention. His electric blue eye was swiveling around in his head, darting back and forth, but his other eye was focused on the letter. It drifted to the envelope, lying forgotten on the dining table. He gave a grunt and flipped the Daily Prophet back in front of his face. Remus suspected his magical eye was still rolling around and glancing at the letter every few seconds.

Remus unfolded the letter and turned it around.

His first impression was that the paper was clearly written on standard printer paper. It was crisp, perfectly folded with two clean creases so that it would fit flat inside the envelope. The handwriting was clearly legible, carefully looped and evenly spaced letters. Remus wouldn't call it pretty, but it was neat.

He read the letter.

Wednesday, 30th August 1995

Dear Remus Lupin,

I hope this letter finds you well. It has been a few years since we've spoken or even seen each other, but I suspect you are doing well. You have always been a resourceful person. It is actually because of this that I am writing to you this morning. I have recently found myself in the unfortunate situation of needing a job rather quickly. I'll spare you the details of the exact reason (though you will probably come to know my situation well enough within the next couple of days), but I am hoping you will help me.

In all of our interactions you have been nothing but kind and helpful. I still remember my first time boarding the Hogwarts Express; you, a complete stranger, helped me look for an empty compartment and when none were to be found, introduced me to the students in a compartment that had the room, many of whom remain my mates to this day. When you became prefect the following year I wasn't shocked in the slightest.

More to the point, from what I have heard you are rather good at finding employment in all sorts of places on short notice. So now you can understand why I have come to you for this matter. You are uniquely qualified both in experience and disposition. So I will ask, can you think of any places that are hiring? If not, do you have any advice for my current situation?

Yours sincerely,

Patrick Hilliard

Scattered along the wooden floor of a modest flat were crumpled up pages. Another one joined the growing pile.

"Oh wait," said Patrick Hilliard, pulling out his wand and levitating the page back to his hand. "That's the one." He placed the paper on his desk and smoothed out the edges. "Yes," he said, squinting at the horrible print and multiple scratched-out words. "Just needs a good rewrite."

And so he did.

Very carefully, Patrick copied the letter in slow, neat script. He checked over it once more for spelling errors and with a nod, sent it along with his owl, Atticus.

He hoped the letter did not come across as too desperate, even though that's exactly what he was. It was only a matter of time until the Prophet released the story and when that happened it would be impossible to find a job. He was running out of time.

In his time of desperation, Remus Lupin had come to his rescue. Patrick had already sent a thank you letter and gift, some assorted caramel and toffee candies the Muggle shop below his flat sold. They were some of his favourites, so he hoped Lupin appreciated the sentiment even if he didn't particularly have a taste for sweets.

Patrick trudged up the sloping lawns, feeling a little hot in his attire. He decided to take off his coat when he entered the large doors and made his way up to his destination.

He calmly knocked three times on the door to the Headmaster's office. A soft 'Come in' called out from beyond the thick wooden door. Patrick entered the room.

With the full intention of quickly making his way to shake Professor Dumbledore's hand, Patrick stopped at the entrance. The full weight of his situation fell to his shoulders. It sank down and settled somewhere in his gut. This meeting, interview, was possibly his last chance, his only chance at a job. Suddenly, Patrick felt very nauseous.

Albus Dumbledore smiled. He watched the young man enter his office and freeze. It wasn't the first time he'd seen that reaction on someone entering his office. It was the first time seeing it in an adult, though. Albus tried to keep the chuckle out of his voice when he spoke.

"It's been a while, Mr. Hilliard," said Albus, widening his smile. It was a wonderful thing to see former students, especially ones as polite as Hilliard. He waved the man over to him. They shook hands and he motioned for the man to sit.

"It has," Hilliard agreed, nodding. "Been a while, sir. I was–." Hilliard frowned. He wiggled in the chair for a moment before glancing down. The young man stood up and then knelt down on the floor, inspecting the chair further.

Albus did laugh this time. "It is nice to see you so well," he said. "You look healthy." And he meant it. The man before him did look healthy. No longer the stick-thin child Filius had always worried was half-starved. He must have grown nearly half-a-dozen centimeters since Albus had last seen him. There was a sprouting of facial hair on his cheeks and upper lip. His hair, which always had so many curls, was now cut in a way that it no longer looked like he was performing a spectacular balancing act. "Have you been well?" He asked the man before him hoping to prompt conversation.

Hilliard continued his inspection of the chair. "Err, yeah, Professor, could be worse," he said distractedly. Then a mumbled 'probably' and he looked sharply up at Albus. "Is this chair conjured?"

Albus found himself laughing again. "It's not often I find myself perplexed by a style of conversation, Mr. Hilliard, but yours is something unique." When the man continued staring at him blankly, he said, "Yes, the chair is conjured."

Hilliard snapped his fingers. "I knew it!" He exclaimed, standing up. He took out his wand, gave a quick flick, and the chair shook for a moment before restructuring itself into a facsimile of Dumbledore's own high-backed armchair.

Albus had earlier this morning considered inviting Filius to the interview. He expected the Ravenclaw Head of House would be ecstatic to see one of his former students again. Now he was coming to truly regret his decision. He found himself clapping at the display as the young man before him sat down with a toothy smile plastered on his face. He stood back up and gave a few bows to Albus' applause before settling back down into his – in Albus' opinion – beautifully transfigured chair.

"I'm sorry for the distraction, sir," said Hilliard, once again nervous. His voice regained its shaky quality from before. "It won't happen again."

"Truthfully, I hope it does happen again," Albus admitted. "But you are correct, I believe we have some business to discuss."

"Yes," Hilliard said. He pulled out a keychain and flipped it around in his hands a few times. "I wanted to discuss the Muggle Studies position, and put my name down for candidacy."

That did surprise Albus some. When he received the letter from Remus after Harry's disciplinary hearing, telling him of a man needing a job he expected the man to be applying for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. After all, they had taken out an advertisement in the Daily Prophet for the position, asked Tom and the Knight Bus to put up their flyers, Albus had even asked the head of the Bureau de L'éducation Magique in France for help filling the post.

"Muggle Studies?" Albus repeated. "Not Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

It was Hilliard's turn to laugh. "Merlin, no." Then he looked at Albus and straightened in his chair. "Err, I mean, well, I don't think I'd be the best candidate…"

Albus tried not to think about his worry that the man was the only candidate and decided to ask a different question. "What is it you think you are lacking as a candidate for Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

"I reckon I've got a few good reasons." He counted them off on his hand. "For one, I have no experience in defense or the Dark Arts, dangerous creatures, survival, duelling, that sort of thing…Also, I'm not what you'd call a fighter, I'm an academic, a researcher, neither of which really goes with the overly enthusiastic action-seeker personality I've always associated with Defense Against the Dark Arts Professors. Thirdly, I didn't exactly score impressively on my Defense N.E.W.T.s.–"

Albus interrupted him. "I'm seeing here," he held up Hilliard's file. "That you earned your N.E.W.T. in Defense."

Hilliard moved his head sporadically before nodding. "Well, yes, but it was an Acceptable." He mumbled under his breath 'I think I deserved a Dreadful, honestly,' and looked away, flipping the keyring in his hand again.

"True, and yet that is technically the only requirement."

Hilliard looked up, his mouth agape. He floundered for a few moments, opening and closing his mouth with only garbled sounds coming out. Finally he seemed to find his voice. "It terrifies me."

Albus titled his head, but didn't say anything. He let the young man find his words.

"The Defense position…it scares me," admitted Hilliard sheepishly. "You know what they say," he said with a shrug.

Albus chortled. "Yes, I do, but please go ahead."

Hilliard sighed. "They say it's cursed. I don't even know if something like a job can be cursed, which is another reason why I shouldn't be Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, mind you. That's probably something I should know, right?"

Albus shrugged noncommittally.

"So, I can't imagine, with all of that being considered, that I would be a good professor for Defense." Hilliard looked up in thought for a moment, a look of concern grew on his face. "And now I'm realizing that, with this being an interview, I should probably be doing everything I can to get the job rather than list my flaws." He stuffed the keyring back into his pocket and rubbed the back of his neck again.

"That's quite alright," Albus said cheerfully. "I do enjoy honesty and yours is refreshing."

A small blush formed on the man's face and he started looking away from Albus. He waited to see if the man would share what he was thinking. Apparently he had no intention of doing so, however, and felt content with the silence for now.

Eventually the man spoke. "Well…about that Muggle Studies post?"

Albus thought for a moment. Truthfully, it was longer than a moment. He was sure he would have forgotten the young man was even there were he not directly in Albus' eyesight and fidgeting horribly. The keys were jingling again as they swung around in the same circular path every few seconds.

Carefully, Albus considered his options. Ultimately, there was only one best course of action for him to take. He quickly rummaged through his desk in search of a particular piece of parchment. He gave a soft cry of success and planted it firmly on the desk. He rotated it so that it was facing the young man in front of him.

"Unfortunately I cannot offer you the position as Muggle Studies professor at this time. However," he quickly amended at seeing the young man deflate in his seat. "What I can offer is the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. We can call it a probation period if you wish."

Hilliard laughed at that. "I'm not sure how often a company will hire a candidate on a probationary basis and then transition them to a different role immediately after, but I'll admit I've never worked for a Muggle business so maybe they do." He sent a look at Albus, a strange combination of curiosity and suspicion. "After this term, you will be giving me a chance at the Muggle Studies position, correct?"

Albus frowned and shook his head. "I'm afraid it will need to be next year at the earliest. If you accept this contract you will teach both terms of Defense Against the Dark Arts this year."

Now it was Hilliard's turn to remain silent for a while as he considered his options. His moment was much quicker than Albus', though. He gladly accepted the position and signed the contract, though Albus could now see a slight fear in his eyes. He was hopeful, though, when he saw a steely determination there as well.

They discussed plans for the coming term. They shook hands. Their meeting was coming to a close. They both stood up. The man was almost to the door.

"Do you have any final questions, Mr. Hilliard?" Albus asked his last question.

The young man stopped, hand nearly on the door handle. He turned around. "Actually, I do," he said sounding surprised, and then a little uncomfortably, scuffing his shoes on the stone floor for a moment before looking up and meeting Albus' eyes again.

Albus motioned for him to ask.

"Is the hiring of Hogwarts professors announced publicly?"

That was the first moment when Albus Dumbledore worried he may come to regret hiring Patrick Hilliard to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts for the 1995-1996 school year.

The second time came at breakfast the following morning. Albus paid the ministry owl and offered a few pieces of bacon before unrolling his copy of the Daily Prophet. Spread across the front cover was a very unflattering photograph of the man he just hired for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.

Eyes wild and darting every which way, hair stuck up in all directions singed and smoking in a few places, and soot smeared across his face. The young man was sitting down amongst wreckage of stone, glass, and wood, holding above his head a part of what looked to have once been part of a wall. It was difficult to tell exactly where the destruction had taken place, but it must have been the Ministry of Magic. Every once in a while, the young man would look up at the camera and give a guilty looking grin.

An unease clawed its way up his gut and spread out across his chest. He heard Filius sputtering from the seat beside him. Minerva was silent, but a single glance told him she was reading the same thing they were. Severus was not reading the newspaper. Albus suspected he would either read it later when he was alone in his quarters or not at all.

Albus read the headline one more time in shock and apprehension.

DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES, COURTROOMS IN SHAMBLES AFTER EXPERIMENT GONE WRONG

Thirty-six injured & Unspeakable fired in the incident