Day by day, Harry was studying at Adrian Wesson's almost every day.
The Tree of Wisdom's growth bar also crept upward, eventually levelling off at fifty per cent.
Wesson didn't know why the Tree of Wisdom made progress whenever it shared a space with Harry, but so long as it kept growing, he would learn the answer one day.
Before long, it was June 1991.
The weather had turned warm, and Wesson had switched into summer robes.
Today, Wesson had—unusually—given Harry a day off, because he needed to go to Diagon Alley.
Before setting out, he brought along some Devil's Snare, just in case anything unusual happened.
Wesson's home happened to have a fireplace connected to the Floo Network, so he could travel to Diagon Alley that way—only, housebound for too long, it had gathered a good deal of dust.
In the Leaky Cauldron, Wesson stumbled out of the grate, brushed at the soot on his robes, and raised such a cloud that a nearby witch wrinkled her nose and edged away.
Wesson sighed. Next time he used the fireplace, he ought to have Harry give it a proper clean first.
"Wesson?" came a slightly rasping voice from behind the bar.
Wesson looked up to see Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron, watching him.
"Good afternoon, Tom."
Wesson stepped up and tapped the bar; Tom promptly slid a glass of mead across to him.
As the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron, Tom could remember just about every regular by name, even if Wesson hadn't dropped in for months.
Wesson had barely taken the glass before Tom leaned in and said, "Professor Kettleburn is waiting for you at the third table to your left."
Following Tom's gaze, Wesson spotted, in the corner, an elderly wizard with greying hair and bandages wrapped round his arm.
Silvanus Kettleburn, currently the Professor of Care of Magical Creatures at Hogwarts.
He was also the Hogwarts professor Wesson was closest to.
Because Wesson was fond of magical creatures, the two had always got on.
When Wesson graduated, he and Professor Kettleburn had even gone adventuring together at a dragon sanctuary in Norway.
As Wesson's eyes found him, Professor Kettleburn looked back.
"Oh!"
He shoved his chair back rather roughly, got to his feet, and came hobbling briskly over to Wesson.
For all the comic look of it, he moved quickly.
Professor Kettleburn threw his arms wide and pulled Wesson into a fierce hug.
He might have been no spring chicken, and his body bore more than a few old injuries, but he was still strong enough that Wesson nearly staggered.
"Ha ha!" boomed Kettleburn, thumping Wesson on the back. "Long time no see, little Ade."
Held fast, Wesson said helplessly, "You too, Professor."
Kettleburn laughed again, then motioned Wesson back towards the corner table. "Sit, have a sip and warm your throat."
Wesson pulled out a chair, sat, and watched him.
Kettleburn took a swallow of his own drink and asked, "You still tinkering about with those strange plants?"
Wesson chuckled, idly stirring the mead in his glass. "Of course, Professor. You know I like them."
At that, Kettleburn frowned and said at once, "You ought to put more energy into magical creatures. You'd already made quite a name for yourself there when you'd barely graduated. If you kept on with it, you'd go even further."
"I know, I know, Professor," Wesson said, shaking his head. "Whether it's magical creatures or plants, both fascinate me. And I've never stopped working with creatures."
What Kettleburn meant by "quite a name" was that, not long after graduating, Wesson had—by certain means—made it possible to keep Thunderbirds in captivity.
Thunderbirds were extraordinarily sensitive to danger and naturally wary of people, making them virtually impossible to breed under human care.
Wesson's method solved that thorny problem.
At the time, it had caused quite a stir in the field.
Satisfied with the reply, Kettleburn nodded.
"But, Professor, that can't be the only reason you asked me here," Wesson said, puzzled.
Kettleburn bared a grin—his teeth a little uneven—set down his glass and said, "Of course not, little Ade. I've got a spot of trouble—and you are just the man for it."
"What is it?" Wesson's curiosity was piqued.
"I'm leaving Hogwarts, little Ade," he said.
"What?" Wesson started, then nodded, thoughtful. "You're finally being sacked, Professor?"
Kettleburn shot him a glare. "I chose to retire!"
"Oh," Wesson muttered under his breath.
He'd thought someone had discovered the professor's secret dragon-keeping and sacked him for it.
Kettleburn sighed, tapped his wooden leg, and gave a wry smile. "You know I'm getting on, and with the leg the way it is, I'm always getting myself hurt."
Wesson raised an eyebrow and listened in silence.
Years ago, an accident had left Kettleburn with only one arm and half a leg.
Magical prosthetics kept his daily life ticking along, but they were never quite the same as the originals.
Kettleburn shook his head, a touch of helplessness in his tone. "I still love teaching, but to tell the truth, I'd rather spend what time I've got left with magical creatures than in a classroom droning on about how to approach Fire Crabs safely to a bunch of little wizards."
"Sounds like a sensible decision, Professor," Wesson said.
He knew just how obsessed Kettleburn was with magical creatures, and naturally supported his choice.
"Quite!" Kettleburn grinned. "And Headmaster Dumbledore has already approved my retirement. A new Professor of Care of Magical Creatures will take over next school year."
"Who's replacing you?" Wesson asked, curious.
With a mysterious smile, Kettleburn pointed at Wesson. "You."
Wesson froze.
"Eh? Me?"
As expected, Kettleburn burst out laughing at his reaction.
Wesson frowned, about to speak, but Kettleburn went on, "Don't look so shocked, little Ade. I've recommended you to Dumbledore, but whether you get the job will depend on you."
Wesson rubbed his temples. "Professor, you're not joking? I've never planned on being a professor."
Kettleburn waved a big hand, utterly unconcerned. "A year ago, you told me that if the chance came, you'd like to teach at Hogwarts."
"So," he spread his hands, "here's your chance."
Wesson lowered his head, thinking. It did sound… like something he might have said.
He didn't feel any aversion to teaching.
"What did the Headmaster say?" Wesson asked.
"Dumbledore says he's willing to give you an interview. Also, if you pass, there'll be a probationary period. You're too young—he's worried you won't adapt."
"Old man's foibles," he added.
Wesson nodded. Perfectly sensible. If he were Dumbledore, he wouldn't hand students over to a twenty-five-year-old without testing him first.
"If I accept, when do you officially retire?"
"A few days ago," Kettleburn said with a shrug. "I've already been paid for my last month."
At that, the conversation paused.
A dozen seconds later, Wesson raised his glass and took a small sip of mead.
"…Let me think about it, Professor."
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