Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
5th of August
The corridors of Hogwarts lay in a rare state of stillness.
The corridors were silent. No students hurried to lessons, no laughter echoed through the halls, no hurried footsteps rang out, no cheerful greetings bounced off the ancient stone walls. It was the summer holidays; the students and most of the staff had gone home to their families and loved ones, and the castle lay vast and empty.
Ethan Thorne walked quietly behind Minerva McGonagall, his steps measured, his posture straight but not rigid. The soft sound of their shoes against the flagstones echoed faintly, filling the long corridor where sunlight streamed through tall arched windows and painted pale gold across the walls.
The portraits were very much awake.
At first, they merely watched him.
Frames of every size lined the walls, filled with witches and wizards from centuries past. Some whispered to one another. Others leaned forward in interest. A few pretended not to stare while staring all the same.
Then the comments began.
"Well now," murmured an elderly witch in emerald robes, peering over the rim of her spectacles. "That one has posture. Reminds me of my third husband. Before the accident."
"Oh hush," said another portrait, a younger woman with curled auburn hair. "Look at his hair. Black as raven feathers. So tidy. So tragic. One can tell he broods."
"I rather like the eyes," sighed a witch draped in silvery blue. She pressed a hand to her chest dramatically. "Such a deep blue. Like a winter lake. You could drown in those eyes and thank him for it."
A nearby portrait of a stern looking wizard snorted. "Eyes do not teach spells. What matters is whether he can survive a duel without crying for his mother."
"Oh do not be jealous," replied a prim witch, flicking her fan open. "If I were still alive, I would certainly have asked him to tea. Or marriage. Whichever came first."
Several portraits giggled openly now.
"Handsome lad," whispered one.
"Far too handsome for this century," said another.
"Bet he breaks hearts without noticing," added a third.
A portly wizard with a thick beard leaned out of his frame and squinted. "He looks like a hero from a tragic ballad. The kind that dies young after three verses."
"That is enough," snapped a painted knight in dented armor. "If you ask me, he looks like trouble."
"Well of course he does," replied a witch sweetly. "The handsome ones always are."
Even some of the male portraits joined in.
"Strong jaw," muttered a wizard polishing a sword in his frame. "Bit too pretty though."
"Aye," said another. "Pretty boys never last long in a fight."
Ethan kept his expression neutral, though the faintest hint of amusement touched his lips. He neither acknowledged the portraits nor appeared disturbed by them, which somehow only fueled their interest further.
Professor McGonagall did not slow her pace, though her lips twitched slightly, suggesting she was very much aware of the commentary behind them.
They ascended a short staircase and turned into a quieter corridor on the third floor, where the sunlight softened and the air grew cooler. At its end stood a large stone eagle statue, wings folded regally at its sides, eyes sharp and intelligent.
Professor McGonagall stopped.
"Please wait here, Mr. Thorne," she said, her voice brisk but not unkind. "I will inform the Headmaster of your arrival."
Ethan inclined his head politely. "Of course, Madam McGonagall."
She stepped forward and spoke the password clearly.
"Lemon sherbet."
The eagle statue shifted at once. Stone ground against stone as it moved aside, revealing a spiral staircase beyond. Professor McGonagall entered without hesitation, the staircase carrying her upward until she disappeared from sight.
Left alone, Ethan turned slowly toward the tall windows at the end of the corridor.
Beyond them stretched the Hogwarts grounds in all their summer glory. Rolling green lawns, the Black Lake gleaming like polished glass, the distant shapes of the greenhouses, and far beyond, the Scottish Highlands rising into mist and sky. The wind stirred the treetops, and for all that beauty and calmness, the world felt impossibly vast and enjoyable.
Ethan stood there, hands clasped behind his back, eyes thoughtful.
After several minutes, the stone eagle shifted again.
Professor McGonagall stepped out and regarded him.
"You may go in, Mr. Thorne," she said. "The Headmaster is waiting for you."
"Thank you, Madme McGonagall," Ethan replied.
He ascended the spiral staircase alone.
At the top, a short corridor led him to a tall wooden door, polished to a soft shine. Ethan paused only briefly before knocking.
A warm, welcoming voice answered at once.
"You may enter."
Ethan opened the door and stepped inside.
The Headmaster's office was unlike any room he had ever seen.
Books filled every wall, stacked on shelves that rose to the ceiling. Curious instruments hummed softly, ticking and spinning in quiet harmony. Sunlight filtered in through tall windows, illuminating floating motes of dust.
Along one wall hung portraits of men and women from different eras, all gazing down with varying degrees of curiosity and scrutiny. Beneath each frame was a small golden nameplate.
Ethan recognized many of them instantly.
They were the former Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts.
His gaze drifted further and stopped.
On a soft pile of golden cotton near the window rested a phoenix.
Its magnificent red and gold feathers glowed faintly in the sunlight, wings tucked close, eyes closed in peaceful slumber.
Ethan's breath caught.
He had seen illustrations, read descriptions, heard legends, but never had he seen one in person.
A phoenix.
A genuine, living phoenix.
A quiet smile spread across his face, something rare and unguarded when he was in unfamiliar territory.
From above came the sound of footsteps.
Ethan looked up as a tall figure descended the steps, robes flowing gently, long silver beard catching the light.
Albus Dumbledore regarded him with twinkling blue eyes behind half moon spectacles.
"Welcome," Dumbledore said warmly. "Welcome, Mr. Thorne. I am delighted to see you."
Ethan inclined his head respectfully. "It is an honor to meet you, Headmaster. And I am grateful that you accepted my request for a meeting."
"Please," Dumbledore said, gesturing to a chair. "Sit. There is no need for stiffness here. Hogwarts has quite enough of that already."
They sat.
Dumbledore folded his hands atop his desk and studied Ethan with calm interest.
"Madame Maxime speaks very highly of you," he said. "Very highly indeed. She wrote that losing you was a tragedy and that if I did not appreciate your talents properly, she might be tempted to reclaim you herself."
Ethan smiled faintly. "I owe her more than I can properly express. She has been a guiding force in my life."
"Yes," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "She mentioned that you were once her apprentice. She made it sound rather as though she had discovered a rare gemstone and reluctantly allowed it to wander off."
He chuckled softly.
"The apprentice tradition is an old one," he continued. "Far older than Hogwarts itself. There was a time when every wizard learned at the side of a master. It is a pity we have lost much of that intimacy in teaching."
Ethan nodded. "I learned a great deal from it."
Dumbledore's gaze sharpened gently. "I must confess, however, that your letter surprised me. Your records are impressive. Graduate of Beauxbatons. Auror training in France with excellent evaluations. Assistant professorship in Transfiguration under Professor Vivienne Sateur. Popular with students, no less."
He leaned back slightly. "But I'm curious. Why leave the Aurors? You were clearly successful—by all accounts—and you handled most of your missions flawlessly. You could easily have risen right to the top by now. So… why walk away?"
Ethan considered his words carefully.
"It was never meant to be permanent," he said at last. "Madame Maxime encouraged me to experience the wider magical world before committing to teaching when I graduated from Beauxbatons. The Auror program offered structure, discipline, and perspective. It taught me how the world truly works outside the classroom."
"A wise decision," Dumbledore said approvingly. "The world has a habit of correcting romantic notions."
Ethan allowed himself a small smile.
"But then," Dumbledore continued, his eyes twinkling faintly over half-moon spectacles, "why leave Beauxbatons when you were on the very cusp of advancement? As an assistant professor, you might well have claimed a full professorship within the next two years, had you not resigned."
Silence lingered for a moment.
"Well… actually, the reason is very personal. It has to do with my parents," Ethan said quietly. "They disappeared years ago, back when I was too young to even remember them clearly. The last thing I have from my mother pointed toward France, so I went there—followed every lead I could find. I turned up nothing solid. That's why I came here… hoping I might finally learn something about them."
Dumbledore's expression softened.
"To seek family," he said. "That is never a small thing."
He nodded once. "A noble purpose."
Then his eyes twinkled again.
"Now," Dumbledore continued, leaning forward slightly, "let us turn to the matter of teaching. You have applied for the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Mr. Thorne. What strengths would you bring to the classroom? What unique lessons might you impart to the students? And—forgive my curiosity—why pursue this position now, given your three years of accomplished work in Transfiguration? Why Defence Against the Dark Arts over continuing in that field?"
Ethan straightened slightly.
"I applied for Defence Against the Dark Arts," he said, "after researching the Hogwarts curriculum over the last decade and studying Professor McGonagall's extensive experience. I've even read some of her papers in Transfiguration Today. I believe the Transfiguration position doesn't need my application—with someone as senior and accomplished as her already teaching there, I'd be the one learning from her. So, after careful consideration, I chose DADA instead."
He paused briefly, then continued more quietly. "The role lacks stability. Students suffer from the inconsistency—adapting every year to a new philosophy, a new method, a new standard. It impacts their results, even though the idea of fresh experts bringing new perspectives to the subject is sound. Still… the constant changes seem to have affected student performance in the field."
"Practical application," Ethan continued. "Structured progression. Defensive theory grounded in reality rather than fear. That is what I would bring."
Dumbledore inclined his head, regarding Ethan with quiet interest as he finished speaking.
"Yes," Dumbledore said mildly, as though picking up the thread of an ongoing thought, "there is indeed a vacancy of the sort you describe. Or rather… there was."
Ethan lifted his gaze, attentive.
"Defense Against the Dark Arts," Dumbledore went on, folding his hands together. "A subject close to my heart, and one that has given this school no small amount of trouble over the years."
A small smile curved his lips, wry and self aware.
"For nearly half a century," he continued, "the post was held by Galatea Merrythought, a formidable witch and an even more formidable colleague. She taught for something between fifty and fifty six years, depending on which set of records one trusts, and retired only when she finally decided that Hogwarts would survive without her constant supervision. A brave decision on her part, I think."
The portraits hummed in agreement.
"After her retirement," Dumbledore said, spreading his hands slightly, "stability became a rather elusive thing. You are quite correct in your assessment. The position has suffered from inconsistency, misfortune, and in some cases a remarkable lack of common sense."
His eyes twinkled faintly.
"However," he said gently, "before your application reached my desk, I had already accepted another candidate. The agreement has been made, and the individual in question brings with them seniority and experience that would make it discourteous, and indeed unwise, for me to rescind the offer."
Ethan nodded slowly. There was disappointment there, but it was measured, contained.
"I see," he said. "That is… unfortunate. A shame, truly. I had hoped to experience Hogwarts from within its walls, to learn how knowledge is shaped here, and perhaps to offer British students the perspective I gained while teaching at Beauxbatons."
He paused, then added with a faint, rueful smile, "But I understand the necessity of honor among colleagues."
Dumbledore regarded him for a long moment, as though weighing something unseen. Then his smile returned, broader now, almost mischievous.
"Well," he said, "honor is an admirable thing, but it is not the only thing worth preserving."
He rose from his chair and turned toward one of the shelves behind him. The movement was unhurried, robes whispering softly against the stone floor. He reached up, fingers brushing past several thick volumes, before selecting a particularly long and heavy book bound in dark blue leather.
"This," Dumbledore said, returning to his desk and setting the book down with deliberate care, "has been occupying my thoughts of late."
Ethan's eyes flicked to the cover. The title was embossed in bold silver lettering.
Ethan felt heat rise to his ears. He shifted his weight slightly and, for the first time since entering the office, looked anywhere but at Dumbledore.
Dumbledore watched him with gentle amusement.
"A provocative title," he said cheerfully. "One might even say inflammatory. It has attracted rather a great deal of criticism in recent years, not to mention a remarkable amount of outrage. Which, I have found, often indicates that a book has touched upon something uncomfortably close to the truth."
He tapped the cover with one long finger.
"The author, as you know, is listed as Mister Unknown. A mysterious fellow. Elusive. Modest, perhaps, or cautious."
Ethan exhaled quietly.
"The book itself," Dumbledore continued, opening it and flipping through several pages, "is, in my opinion, extremely well written. Clear, methodical, and rather daring in its willingness to challenge long held assumptions within wizarding society."
He glanced up.
"It was, of course, banned in the United Kingdom."
A hint of apology colored his tone, though his eyes suggested anything but regret.
"Officially," he said, "for promoting dangerous ideas among the younger generation. Unofficially, I suspect, because it asks questions that many would prefer remain unasked."
Ethan swallowed.
"In other countries," Dumbledore went on, "France among them, it remains available. I have friends who travel widely and read even more widely. With their assistance, I grew curious about who might have written such a work."
He closed the book gently.
"And after some investigation," he said, "it became clear that the origins of the manuscript traced back to France. From there, it was only a matter of patience and persistence to learn that Mister Unknown was not unknown at all."
Dumbledore met Ethan's eyes directly now.
"Am I correct, Mister Thorne," he asked pleasantly, "in assuming that you are the author?"
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold its breath.
Then Ethan smiled.
"Well," he said, a soft laugh escaping him, "it appears that some of my friends are not nearly as skilled at keeping secrets as they believe themselves to be."
He placed a hand lightly on the edge of the desk.
"Yes," he admitted. "I wrote it."
Dumbledore's expression did not change, save for the deepening of the lines around his eyes.
"I wrote it after observing both worlds," Ethan continued. "The magical and the ordinary. I watched how quickly non magical society progresses, how their technology evolves at a pace that we scarcely acknowledge. Their inventions are not merely curiosities. They are powerful. Transformative."
He lifted his gaze, earnest now.
"My belief is that wizardkind should learn from this. Especially our alchemists. Integration of such technology could have profound benefits for our society."
He paused.
"The book was intended as an introduction," he said. "A way for younger witches and wizards to understand a world they are taught to ignore. I wrote it in French, assuming it would remain within France. I did not anticipate the resonance it would find elsewhere, nor the translations that followed."
His smile faded slightly.
"Here, it was deemed blasphemous. A threat to tradition. In truth, it is informational, nothing more."
Dumbledore nodded slowly.
"I quite agree," he said. "Fear often disguises itself as tradition. And tradition, when left unexamined, can become a cage."
He leaned back in his chair.
"It was wise of you," he added lightly, "to conceal your identity. Wizarding society is not always kind to those who hold mirrors up to it. We have a tendency to throw stones at reflections we dislike."
He smiled again.
"Tell me, Mister Thorne," Dumbledore said, "if you cannot teach here as a professor, what would you say to the idea of teaching Hogwarts something else entirely?"
Ethan blinked.
"I am listening," he said.
Dumbledore's eyes sparkled.
"Good," he replied. "Because education, as I have learned, rarely confines itself to classrooms."
Dumbledore folded his hands together and regarded Ethan with an expression that was thoughtful rather than hesitant.
"So," he said gently, "I searched for an appropriate place for you within Hogwarts."
Ethan listened attentively, his posture respectful, though there was a trace of tension in his shoulders. He did not interrupt.
"At first," Dumbledore continued, "I considered you for Muggle Studies. It seemed fitting, given your… literary contribution to the magical world." His eyes twinkled knowingly. "However, that position is already held by Professor Charity Burbage, who has served this school for many years with diligence and patience. Replacing her would be neither wise nor fair."
Ethan nodded. "Of course."
Dumbledore leaned back slightly in his chair.
"Then," he said, "I reflected upon what I had heard. From my colleagues. From Madame Maxime. From records both official and unofficial." He smiled faintly. "She was rather persistent, I must say. I believe she threatened to write me a letter every week until I did something sensible."
Ethan let out a quiet laugh despite himself.
"So," Dumbledore went on, "I asked myself a simple question. What does Hogwarts truly lack at this moment?"
He raised one finger.
"Stability."
Another finger.
"Practical experience."
And a third.
"A safe environment in which students may learn how to defend themselves without panic or recklessness."
He paused, allowing the words to settle.
"For that reason," Dumbledore said calmly, "I have decided to offer you the position of Dueling Professor."
Ethan froze for half a heartbeat.
"The position existed long ago," Dumbledore explained. "It was discontinued after a number of… enthusiastic incidents involving overconfident adolescents and insufficient padding charms. Students were injured. Parents complained. The Board panicked."
His eyes twinkled again.
"As Boards so often do."
Ethan slowly drew in a breath.
"But times change," Dumbledore continued. "The world does not grow gentler. If anything, it grows more complicated. I believe it is time that structured dueling and practical defensive training be reinstated."
He folded his hands again.
"Your experience as an Auror, combined with your years of supervised teaching, makes you well suited for this task. You will not be acting alone. You will coordinate with the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and where appropriate, you may assist in their classes as well. Cooperation, after all, is a form of defense in itself."
Ethan felt something loosen in his chest.
"I have already spoken with Minerva McGonagall," Dumbledore added. "Your classes will be scheduled twice a week. One session for younger students. Another for older students. The focus will be controlled dueling, situational awareness, and practical defensive response. Professor McGonagall will assist you with scheduling, materials, and safety protocols."
He smiled warmly.
"I suspect she will insist upon an excessive number of rules."
Ethan could not help but smile.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he rose from his chair and inclined his head deeply.
"I am grateful," he said sincerely. "For your trust. For this opportunity. I promise you that I will give everything I have to ensure the students benefit from it. Every lesson I have learned, I will pass on."
Dumbledore nodded, satisfied.
"That," he said, "is all any teacher can promise."
He stood as well.
"You may begin officially on the first of September. Professor McGonagall will contact you shortly with details. I suggest you prepare early. Hogwarts has a way of surprising even those who believe themselves prepared."
Ethan bowed his head once more.
"Thank you, Headmaster Dumbledore. I will not disappoint you."
Dumbledore chuckled softly.
"Please," he said. "Professor will do. I have been called that for a very long time, and changing now might cause unnecessary confusion."
Ethan smiled.
"Then I shall see you on the first of September, Professor Dumbledore."
He turned and left the office, the door closing softly behind him.
Silence returned.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Then a portrait stirred.
A tall, sharp faced wizard in dark robes leaned forward in his frame. Beneath his portrait, the name Phineas Nigellus Black was engraved in black.
"Why did you accept him?" Phineas Nigellus Black demanded. "You were prepared to reject him. Instead, you created an entirely new position simply to accommodate him. That is favoritism, Albus. Reckless favoritism."
Several other portraits murmured in agreement.
"His origins are unclear," Black continued. "His history conveniently vague. And that sentimental tale about searching for his parents?" He scoffed. "Absurd. That sort of story is favored by liars and Evil wizards alike."
Another former Headmaster nodded grimly. "We know nothing of his true allegiance."
Dumbledore listened patiently.
When they finished, he looked up at them, his expression calm.
"Time," he said softly, "will tell us who Mr. Thorne truly is."
Black snorted. "You gamble with the safety of this school again."
"I invest in potential future," Dumbledore replied mildly.
He rose from his chair and walked toward the window, where the phoenix stirred faintly in its sleep.
"Our students deserve more than theory," he continued. "They deserve the means to protect themselves when knowledge alone is not enough. And yes, I do not know everything about Mr. Thorne."
He smiled faintly.
"But I know someone who does."
Several portraits stiffened.
"Someone whose judgment I trust," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. "Someone who has never once failed this school."
Black sneered. "You place too much faith in ghosts of the past."
Dumbledore did not reply.
He simply reached out and gently stroked the phoenix's feathers.