"Enter."
The door to the Headmaster's office swung smoothly open, as if on command, and a hooded figure in dark mahogany robes stepped quickly inside, closing the door behind them. The figure paused, seeming to survey the office for a few moments, before stepping up to the Headmaster's desk and into the late August sunlight that was streaming through the window. Violet eyes could be made out, glittering, beneath their hood.
"Dumbledore," the stranger greeted their host brusquely.
Albus Dumbledore smiled at the figure from behind his desk, hands clasped in front of him. An open Daily Prophet lay on the desk, facing him. "Good day," he said politely. "And to whom do I owe the pleasure?"
"You know perfectly well who I am. You owled me," the visitor snapped, but conceding the Headmaster's unspoken point, she reached up and pulled her hood back, revealing the face of a young woman, barely into her twenties. Choppy brown hair fell to her chin, combining with her pinched expression - narrowed eyes and a slight, aggravated-looking frown - to make for a rather forbidding demeanour. The woman's most striking feature was a patch of hair angled across her fringe that was a different colour to the rest, a light tawny shade, almost orange. That alone made her recognisable on sight to all who had met her.
"Ah, Merula," said Dumbledore in a pleasant voice, as though he were greeting an old friend. "Indeed, I was expecting you. Please do sit down… may I offer you a drink?"
Merula Snyde hesitated for just a moment, then took the offered seat, shaking her head. "I'd rather get to the point." She sat straight-backed against the chair, as if keeping as great a distance between herself and Dumbledore as she could manage without being overtly rude, and folded her arms.
"Defence Against the Dark Arts," she stated. "You must be truly desperate if you're asking me, Dumbledore."
Dumbledore quirked an eyebrow, still smiling. "You do not think yourself to be qualified?"
"Of course I'm qualified," Merula said, annoyance colouring her tone again. "More qualified than any of the Defence teachers you hired to teach while I was here. Except perhaps Rakepick, but we know how that turned out."
Her disdain for Dumbledore's hiring choices was clear, but the Headmaster did not seem at all perturbed. His pleasant smile lingered as he asked his next question. "Then, if you'll bear with an old scholar's curiosity, for what reason do you find the invitation surprising? You must, I'm certain, have no shortage of requests for your talents."
Merula harrumphed. "I've got too many reasons to count. You left it awfully late, for starters; term starts in two days, unless Hogwarts has changed one of its longest standing traditions in the time since I left. From the look of your letter, you're outright giving me the job if I want it, I'd hardly call this a normal interview. I've been off the grid for four years so can't have been your first choice, I could've been in Australia for all you knew. And lastly, of course you won't find anyone better to teach defensive magic, but you should know I'm not going to fall in line with your pacifistic ways. You know how I do things. Defend by attacking. Kill before you get killed. That's what I'd be teaching your students. Is that what you want?"
Dumbledore's smile had faded by now, and he surveyed Merula intently, his blue eyes piercing. Merula stared back unflinchingly. The moment was broken by a soft cry; Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix, soared down from his perch behind Merula, landing on the aged wizard's shoulder. Dumbledore reached up to stroke the phoenix's crimson plumage lightly.
Merula snorted. "Your bird has impeccable timing," she told Dumbledore in a thoroughly unimpressed tone. "Is this a creative way to guilt me for my so-called lack of purity?"
"Oh, no," Dumbledore said immediately, his voice light and affable as ever. "Fawkes does as he pleases; he has no master. I cannot speak for his motives… but perhaps, rather like so many other living things, it is merely love and company he desires."
Merula made another noise of derision, but said nothing, her eyes following the large bird as it took to flight again and soared over her shoulder back to its perch. She then returned her gaze to Dumbledore, who was watching her again.
"Lord Voldemort has returned," the old wizard said at last, quietly and gravely.
Merula remained silent for a long moment. Then, very slowly, she nodded. "I've heard from former associates of my parents. No direct approaches, of course, they're not stupid, but their hints aren't exactly subtle. Between that and what happened at the Triwizard Tournament in June, Cedric Diggory and the Potter boy, it's not hard to put two and two together."
"And your response?" Dumbledore prodded her. "To your parents' associates?"
"I'm pretending not to notice, for now," said Merula, her face pinching as if she'd tasted something very sour. "I've got no interest in joining Voldemort, not after the trouble caused by the last Dark wizards' cabal, but to deny them outright would be a death sentence. I actually was planning on disappearing soon, starting a new life somewhere abroad, until your owl threw a spanner in the works. Possibly. Maybe. I still haven't decided yet."
"I see," said Dumbledore slowly. "And… should Voldemort rise in power to even greater heights than before… should he track you down, or conquer Britain and set his sights abroad? What then?"
"Funny. I never took you for a pessimist."
"One must be prepared for all eventualities," Dumbledore said simply.
Merula's jaw tensed, but Dumbledore said nothing more, demanding an answer in his silence. "Fine," she snapped at last. "It's not what you'll want to hear, and Merlin knows it's not a choice I want to make, but yes, I would join the Death Eaters to save my own life. Not everyone can have your high idealism, old man. If that excludes me from the job, then so be it. I knew this was a waste of my time."
She began to push herself up from the chair, but was only halfway out of her seat when Dumbledore replied, "On the contrary, that is exactly why I am offering the job to you."
Merula blinked, the anger in her expression fading into confusion, and she sat back down. "What do you mean by that?"
"The situation is graver than you know," said Dumbledore, clasping his hands once more over the edition of the Daily Prophet still prone on the desk. There was no hint of a smile on his face; now, he was all seriousness. This was the Dumbledore whom Dark wizards feared, the wizard who had bested Gellert Grindelwald half a century prior. "Precious few accept the truth of Voldemort's return. You'll have read the newspapers, no doubt, and seen that they are painting the story as the ravings of a mentally ill child and a senile old fool. This is at the Ministry's behest, caused by Cornelius Fudge's unwillingness to accept the inevitability of war, and no doubt influenced by Death Eaters at high positions within the Ministry and in the Minister's confidence."
"I'd thought as much," murmured Merula, making a face at the newspaper. "I don't see what this has to do with me, though."
"At this very moment," Dumbledore went on as if Merula had not interjected, "the Wizengamot - from which, as you'll be aware, I have been summarily dismissed - is in the process of passing a law that will allow the Ministry of Magic to appoint whomsoever they choose as a Professor at this school, should there be a vacancy that the Headmaster is unable to fill. I believe the Minister's intention is to appoint a witch or wizard of his choice, with the twofold goal of promoting the Ministry's version of June's events, and actively discouraging the students from learning defensive magic."
"Discouraging?" Merula asked incredulously.
"Cornelius," said Dumbledore seriously, "believes me to be working against him. He is under the impression that I am using young Harry's claims about Voldemort's return as an opportunity to promote panic and instability, and as a pretext for training the students of Hogwarts for battle, in effect creating an army to use against him and the Ministry."
"He is a fool!" Merula hissed. "I'd known he was already, of course, but this…"
"He is afraid," said Dumbledore, spreading his hands wide. "Fearful people do foolish things. But there is no doubt that, whatever his motives may be, these plans play directly into Voldemort's hands. Should the students at Hogwarts be incapable of defending themselves, and unsuspecting of an attack, even I and the rest of the staff will be unable to withstand an assault on the castle, which Voldemort undoubtedly intends; the school is a place dear to his heart, one he has always coveted. Hogwarts would fall, and with the Ministry weak and corrupt as it is, Britain would be under Voldemort's control in a matter of months, if not weeks."
"And he'd then find other goals," Merula said sourly, "like expanding his influence, and hunting down those who defied him or ran from him, to show no one is safe. OK, you've made your point."
She turned her head to gaze out the window at the sunny grounds, plainly considering her options. Dumbledore watched her. Suddenly, there was a bright burst of flame from Fawkes' perch and Merula jumped, twisting around in shock. The bird wasn't there anymore: only the faintest wisp of smoke remained.
"He is unharmed," Dumbledore said from behind her, forestalling any question. Merula turned back to face him. "Fawkes rushes to the aid of any who show me great loyalty. What few allies I have remaining on the Wizengamot must be forestalling proceedings, but they will only be able to delay the passage of the law for a little longer. I can but allow you a mere few minutes to consider my offer before it is taken forcibly from us."
Merula nodded. She tapped one finger on the edge of the desk, the only movement betraying her agitation. "You're asking me to join you. You want to get to me before the other side does."
"I ask nothing," Dumbledore replied, "but for you to do what the Minister's appointed teacher will not. To fulfil your duty as Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts: to teach the students of Hogwarts to defend themselves, to the best of your quite prodigious abilities. How the students choose in the war to come… and, indeed, how you choose… is out of my hands. I have faith that what is right shall prevail in the fullness of time -" Merula snorted, "but I will not force anyone to make a choice, for good or ill. That is Voldemort's way, not mine."
Merula said nothing for several moments. Her eyes did not leave Dumbledore, nor did his falter; it was a battle of wills, each as uncompromising as the other. "I've warned you," she said at last. "I won't play by your rules. Any class taught by me will be learning to attack, and kill if necessary. If Fudge thinks you're training an army here, you might be proving him right. Perhaps that's what I want: an army of my own, to make me greater than even Voldemort."
Dumbledore smiled, once more showing no sign of concern at Merula's words. "Ah, Merula, if you truly wanted that, you would not tell me, would you?"
"Maybe that's what I want you to think," Merula shot back.
Dumbledore chuckled. "How very cunning of you. I see the Sorting Hat did not choose wrongly. Nevertheless, it is a chance I am willing to take."
Merula let out a hiss of annoyance. "You know what I'm trying to ask. Why? Why me, when you could no doubt find someone loyal to you to fill the post, who'll be nice and humane with the students? Are you, Merlin forbid, re-thinking your no-violence policy? Or do you have some other motive?"
Dumbledore's mirth faded, his expression quickly becoming sober. He looked towards the window. Afternoon was settling in, and the sunlight, while as bright as ever, was starting to take on a yellowish hue.
"As you quite rudely, and yet by no means wrongly, pointed out, I am an old man," he said at last. "This war will not be fought by me; truth be told, I will be happily surprised if I live to see the end of it. The battle will belong to those far more youthful: those of your age, and yet younger, those still studying at Hogwarts. Harry Potter, of course, is intimately involved, and many of his classmates also will be, in time, out of necessity. I hope that they will choose honour over bloodlust, but once again, I cannot and will not make their decisions for them. I can do no more and no less than my duty as their Headmaster: to ensure they have the necessary tools to survive, that they are prepared for what is to come. I can think of none more suited to that particular job than you."
In the ensuing silence, as Merula digested Dumbledore's words, a brief flash of flame erupted high above them, disappearing as suddenly and completely as it had arrived. A single golden feather floated down towards the desk, and Dumbledore caught it. "Fawkes is warning us. Our time grows short."
"Give me the contract," said Merula. There was a gleam in her eye; she had made her decision. Dumbledore stood and moved, with a swiftness belying his age, over to one of the many cabinets in the room, opening it and immediately retrieving a roll of parchment from the very top shelf. He returned to the desk and handed it to Merula, along with a long, ornate turquoise quill.
Silence reigned for a couple of minutes. The contract wasn't long, but Merula read it thoroughly, brow furrowed. Finally, she looked up at Dumbledore again. "Only one year?"
"Just the one," said Dumbledore lightly. "I do not wish to compel you to remain at Hogwarts any longer than you deem necessary. Should you wish to remain after this year has concluded, we shall discuss the matter then."
Merula gazed at Dumbledore shrewdly, as if about to protest or question further, but if she had any such words in mind, she decided against speaking them. Instead, she smoothed the parchment out on the desk, and signed it quickly, in a small, cramped script.
"Quite excellent," said Dumbledore, beaming. "Now, I have already made preparations for you to be quartered on the ground floor, adjoining the staff room. That can be negotiated, of course, if the arrangements are not to your liking. If you should desire aid in moving your belongings or setting up your quarters, or any other need, please call on Dobby the house-elf and he shall happily assist you. I dearly apologise for not remaining with you myself, but I sense I shall soon have the delightful duty of informing Cornelius that I have succeeded in appointing a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, and that his truly admirable efforts to assist me in doing so are unrequired… Ah, speak of the devil."
The fireplace in the office, which until now had sat unlit and unobtrusive, had suddenly roared to life with green flame. A moment later, out stepped a small, slightly portly man wearing a lime-green bowler hat. He was clutching a roll of parchment to his chest and his eyes gleamed with triumph and anticipation, but his expression became fixed when he saw that Dumbledore was not alone in his office.
"Good day, Cornelius," Dumbledore addressed him cheerfully. "Worry not, you aren't interrupting us; we had just concluded the formalities of our meeting. May I introduce to you Hogwarts' newest staff member, Professor Snyde?"
Cornelius Fudge went very pale. He opened his mouth, and although he didn't speak, his lips formed the word, Professor…?
Merula stepped forward. "A pleasure, Minister." She extended her hand, which Fudge shook limply, and went on, "I'll be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts, and I have to say, I'm looking forward to it very much. Now… you'll both have to excuse me. I have quarters to settle into and lessons to plan. Have a nice day, Headmaster, Minister."
She inclined her head to both men in turn and swept out of the office, leaving a smiling Dumbledore and a spluttering Fudge behind her.
Author's notes: I haven't decided yet if this will be a stand-alone one-shot or if I will extend this into a full-length story. If you are interested in reading more, or have any ideas, please let me know.
Thank you for reading, and please leave a review with any comments or constructive criticism.