Professor Potter

"You sure know how to put those down Honey."

His chest on fire, Harry looked up from his glass of Firewhisky, managing a smile to the blond behind the bar. 

"It's been a long day… I think?" he said. "Or maybe it was the shortest one ever? I'm not quite sure, to be honest."

"You're a bit touched in the head, aren't you?" Rosmerta asked in a kind voice.

"People have told me things along those lines before."

"Well, you're lucky," she said. "Because you're cute enough to get away with it."

Harry blinked, looking at the curvy blond witch in time to catch her winking at him. She swept around the bar on her way to serve one of the tables. Harry thought she might've been adding a bit of sway to her hips, but it was hard to say. Rosmerta had always been a natural flirt.

Her bar looked exactly the same as Harry remembered from his school days, an atmosphere that was doing even more to ease his mind than the alcohol, if he was being honest. He was the only one sitting at the bar, but at least five of the tables around the room were full. The soft sound of conversation filled the room, punctuated by periodic laughter and the clinking of glasses. While nowhere near as busy as what it would get on a Hogsmeade weekend, Harry certainly wouldn't call it empty. He even saw a few familiar faces (albeit very different from the last time he saw them). Michael Corner and Terry Boot of Ravenclaw sat at a table in the middle of the room, helping themselves to a heavy dinner.

A charm on the door suddenly activated, causing a chiming sound as it swung open. 

"Sit down anywhere!" Rosmerta called. "I'll be with you in a minute!"

Harry glanced back in time to catch three young men stomp into the room. They picked a table not far away from the Ravenclaws. Two of the newcomers were strangers to him, but the third…

Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Quidditch Captain for Harry's first three years at Hogwarts, had an impossible face to forget. His looks stood out as much as a veela's… for all the wrong reasons. 

Harry turned away, returning to his drink. Looks aside, it was no business of his whether old classmates came for a meal, even if it was profoundly strange to see Marcus Flint looking fifteen years younger than him.

As he let the molten Firewhisky slip down his throat, Harry attempted to set his priorities straight for the future. As a first step, he went over what he currently knew.

He was in the past. Voldemort was likely alive, given the lengths Aurors were willing to go and the general prowess they showed. But the Dark Lord couldn't be operating in the open yet: if he was, the effects would've been obvious just from the faces of citizens. Was the ministry denying Voldemort's existence, but secretly training themselves to be ready? That would at least be a better approach than the one Harry remembered from them… But he was already getting too deep into speculation.

He set gathering information as his next step. He would have to be subtle about it, though. Nothing would make someone clam up quicker than asking something like, 'Say, who's the Minister of Magic again?' The trick was to seem as if you already knew.

"Sorry about that," Rosmerta said, arriving back at the bar. "I went and left you all alone for a while."

"I arrived alone," Harry pointed out.

"I know. That's why I'm trying not to make you stay that way."

She walked around to the other side of the bar, resting her elbows on it and leaning forward to look at him. Harry avoided looking down her low-cut top, despite how easy she was making it. In his peripherals, he saw many of the men around the room making no such effort.

"So… Let's hear it," said Rosmerta. "What has you here drowning your sorrows?"

"Well, I lost my house for one," said Harry. "Magical accident. One second, I've got everything I need, the next… There's a reason I'm here."

Rosmerta's eyes were wide. "Merlin! Were you an Unspeakable or something?"

"No, nothing like that. I worked for the Ministry for a bit… Freelanced for a bit… Unemployed now…"

He'd been working at his drink consistently, finishing off the small bottle he'd paid for. Rosmerta reached under the bar now, pulling out a second and planting it down.

"Yours," she said. "On the house." 

"Thank you," Harry told her warmly. "But I can't even drink all of that."

"Then I'll help."

Rosmerta snatched a glass and set it down, filling it at the same time she filled Harry's. They lifted their glasses and clinked them together, toasting.

"What's this for?" Harry asked. "The loss of my house?"

"It was to new beginnings," she said. "It seemed like you could use it."

She had no idea how accurate that phrasing was. They knocked their glasses back, drinking deeply. Harry was pretty good at handling alcohol, but Rosmerta put hers down with the ease of someone who had owned her own bar for decades.

"Say, you're always here in Hogsmeade, aren't you?" Harry asked.

"Already planning a follow-up visit?" Rosmerta teased. 

"I was just wondering," Harry admitted. "Are the rumors… I mean, did the Boy Who Lived really get up to all of that?"

Rosmerta's face darkened.

"He's a good kid, you hear?" she said. "I don't care what they run about him in the Prophet. He's eaten here a dozen times. Never been anything but sweet to me!"

Harry let go of his glass, gesturing for calm with his hands. "I didn't mean anything by it! Just curious, really. If you believe in him that much, that's good enough for me."

To tell the truth, he was feeling a bit touched. He never knew Rosmerta particularly well. He hadn't expected her to defend him so vehemently.

"There has to be a bit of truth in it though, right?" he asked. "The Prophet will always paint people a certain way, but they're usually something real when they do it. Just to keep things believable."

Rosmerta sucked on her lower lip, her expression becoming sad.

"There was definitely something," she said. "I was there in the audience. When he got to the trophy, it took him somewhere. He came back fifteen minutes later. I could see because I was in the front row. He looked like he'd seen a ghost."

Five ghosts, in fact. Harry nodded to show that he'd heard, but his head was already racing. Rosmerta was describing the climax of the Triwizard Tournament from the end of his Fourth Year. That certainly fit with Voldemort being back, and the public still living their lives. The Dark Lord would be laying low right now, taking advantage of the Ministry's inability to handle the truth as he gathered his powers again. Really, the only thing that didn't fit with this was the Auror that used and Unforgiveable on him. Did the man just have a terrible temper?

There was a crash behind him. By the time Harry and others around the room turned to look, glass was spread around Flint and his two friends. Flint was missing his glass. It didn't take a genius to understand that was what dropped and shattered.

"Oops," he said loudly. "Rosmerta! I dropped my glass. Get me a new one."

Michael Corner, sitting at the next table over, stood up.

"You just held it out and dropped it!" he said. "You're just making an excuse to get her attention!"

Flint gave Michael the same look that he always gave the Gryffindor Chasers before going in for a foul. Before anything could happen, Rosmerta had given Harry an apologetic look and walked over.

She swished her wand as she moved, repairing the glass effortlessly and levitating it up, cleaning it with another quick charm. Flint smiled as he accepted it, striking up a conversation with her. It didn't last as long as he hoped, going by his scowl when Rosmerta turned away to say something to Michael. By the time she finished, Michael was sitting across from Terry again, smiling a bit stupidly.

"You earn your tips," Harry told her when she returned.

Rosmerta rolled her eyes.

"For unknown reasons, male students tend to get a bit belligerent when they visit," she said. "And not all of them outgrow it after they graduate. In fact, some only get more determined."

Based on what he learned from Rosmerta, Michael and Terry were currently going into their Fifth Year at Hogwarts. Flint, meanwhile, had been out of school for two years. Yet it was clear as day that both of them were here for the same thing: a bit of Rosmerta's attention and, though this part was purely hopeful on their part, affection.

Considering the age of the Ravenclaws, and the looks of the Slytherin, Harry wouldn't put a single Knut on either of their chances.

"Alright, don't keep me in suspense now," Rosmerta said. "What's your plan to get back on your feet?"

"Is 'I don't have one' a valid answer?"

"There has to be something."

"Not yet, I'm afraid," Harry admitted. "First I came for a drink. I'm going to save thinking until tomorrow."

"Sounds like me on a night out," Rosmerta said.

Harry blinked. "I didn't figure you would be into… Well…"

She laughed. "I know my good looks are very mature, but I was young enough to party once. And I'll have you know that I'm only forty-four now!"

She cuffed Harry's shoulder playfully. He moved with the blow, acting as if she had all the strength of a full-grown giant, and Rosmerta laughed again. She had a nice smile, he noticed. Just like the Ravenclaws eating behind him, Ron had been caught staring more than once back in their school days. But now that Harry was only a decade off of her in age, he couldn't help but notice her looks in a new way.

It occurred to him that he didn't have a place to stay tonight. He could always conjure something, but watching Rosmerta drink with him, her flirtatious comments, and the way she made an excuse to bump against him and get a feel for his shoulder, made him wonder if that would be necessary.

Before he could ponder any further, his ears picked up the sound of Marcus Flint's deep voice. 

"They're sure going to have to be careful now!" he boasted to his friends. "Proper wizards have had it up to here with them! Pretty soon, Mudbloods are going to have to live looking over their shoulders!"

He was hardly keeping his voice down. In fact, unless Harry was mistaken, he was intending to be heard. Like he was daring anyone to call him on his words. Terry Boot reached across the table, laying a warning hand on Michael's knuckle, which had tightened into a fist. 

Rosmerta hadn't noticed, too busy taking another few gulps off her Firewhisky. Others were pretending they hadn't heard to keep eating their meals in peace. Flint wasn't finished.

"Isn't it loony to think about?" he said. "Mudbloods actually go to Hogwarts after growing up like that. I hear Muggle houses have dirt floors, and they poo in holes in the ground. Can you imagine coming to Hogwarts after that? I'm surprised they don't have a heart attack on the train seeing civilized society for the first time!"

Harry thought it was a bit rich hearing about civilized society from a boy who looked more like a troll than some trolls. Suddenly, he caught Michael's hand dipping to his pocket for his wand. Harry swiveled on his circular seat, watching intently.

The Ravenclaw was still holding back… But Flint was still talking.

"Muggles have to do everything by hand! Cleaning, cooking, laundry, it all takes them hours. When you think about it, they're basically House Elves, but even worse at it! If I had to have a parent like that—"

"Shut up!" Michael roared.

He shot to his feet again. But this time, he aimed his wand directly at Flint's broad head.

"My mom is not a House Elf," he growled. "Why do you keep talking when you know nothing?!"

Flint stared back unflinchingly.

"Oh," he said. "You're a Half-Blood. That makes sense."

Rosmerta glared. "You—" she began.

Before she could finish, Flint's friends had their wands aimed at Michael. Terry staggered up, drawing his own wand. Flint's wand had already been in his hand. Michael roared out, "Expelliarmus!" while the Slytherin's each spat out a nastier curse. People screamed. Four glasses sped into the air, one for each curse cast.

Michael's disarming spell caused one glass to fly into his chest, making him grunt and step back. The other glasses met worse fates. Two shattered completely, while the third melted as if stuck into a furnace. The Slytherin's robes grew a life of their own, flipping up like they'd been blown by the wind, blinding them as they shot to their feet. By the time they clawed their robes off of their eyes, Harry was standing between them and Michael.

"You're wrong," he said.

The statement was so simple that, for a moment, Flint seemed at a loss.

"And how would you know?" he spat.

"Because I lived with them," Harry said. "I lived in a Muggle house for most of my life. They have perfectly normal floors, and toilets just like we do."

"So what?" asked one of the others. "Should we bow down to them just because they don't live like complete savages?"

"Of course not." Harry eyed the trio. "I'll put it this way. Something else that you said wasn't wrong."

He bent forward, looking at the shards of glass beneath him. Harry reached out, beginning to collect the piece by hand, one at a time.

"Muggles don't have magic like us," he said. "They all have to do things this way. Chores do take them hours to finish. All of that is true."

The Slytherins smirked, believing he was proving their point. Harry continued picking up glass.

"The part I don't agree with," he said, "is where that makes them lesser than us. Between doing things slowly by hand, or waving a wand and having it fixed in a flash, which do you think is more impressive? I know which one is easier. Muggles work this hard to do the things that we don't even have to think about. And yet they still find time to live lives, have families, and experience joy. In a way, that's magic itself."

Someone knelt beside Harry.

Rosmerta had crossed the room, stooping beside him. Without a word, she began picking up glass by hand. A moment later Michael had joined them. His wand was stowed back in his pocket. When he met Harry's eyes, he nodded firmly.

Terry was helping moments later. One by one, patrons from different tables pushed back their chairs, walking over and dropping to their knees, helping clean with nothing but their hands. Together, with so many people, it still took them over a minute to accomplish what one spell could have done in seconds. Yet no one looked disappointed when they finished.

Harry held the pile of shards in his cupped hands as he stood, extending it toward the three Slytherins who were looking around themselves with a growing mix of confusion and alarm.

"To hate someone, you should at least put a bit of thought into what it's like to be them first," Harry said. "Otherwise, the only thing you're insulting is yourself."

It looked as if they wanted to run. The boys could sense that they had completely lost the room. Picking a fight with two teenagers was a completely different proposition to drawing their wand on over ten witches and wizards standing on all sides of them. Harry expected them to run. But at the last second, something different came over them.

It was as if they all remembered the same thing at the exact same time. The nerves they were showing from the situation were replaced by genuine fear. Their wands whipped up, all three of them aiming curses directly at Michael Corner, like whatever came after wouldn't matter if they could at least take him down.

People cried out. Michael flinched, putting his arms in front of his face without time to raise a proper shield. Harry threw the glass shards into the air.

As they flew up, sparkling in the light of the room's candles, they congealed into a transparent shield in front of Michael. The curses shattered the shield immediately, but stopped there. As the glass turned back into a cloud of slivers, each of them transfigured into a stinging insect, swarming the Slytherins.

The troublemakers were doomed. Pink warts formed all across their skin, too itchy and painful for them to finish any more spells. As quick as the insects appeared, they turned inanimate again, forming ropes that tied the three Slytherins tightly together, trapping their wands at their waists.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked, turning to Michael Corner.

Michael nodded, but Harry couldn't help but notice Michael wasn't looking directly at him. Rather, he was looking past him, over his shoulder…

Someone started to clap. When Harry twisted around, he did so just in time to get an eye-full of chartreuse robes with gold stars on them, a truly unmissable combination. Even before he saw the long grey beard and half-moon spectacles, Harry knew there was only one person who would don such an outlandish outfit in public. His throat became tight.

"Excellent work!" Dumbledore said. "I confess, when I arrived, I was certain I would have to intervene. I'm glad I didn't! I could never have handled this situation with so much grace."

Not yet trusting his voice, Harry gave the Headmaster a nod.

"I confess, I have a question," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling wildly. You wouldn't happen to be in the market for a job, would you? I happen to have a position open that I've been absolutely unable to keep filled, perfectly befitting your obvious skills. Have I sparked your interest?"

With no money to his name but the few sickles he'd kept in his pockets, staring down a man he lost when he wasn't even an adult yet, Harry managed to make himself say, "I could probably be convinced."

O-O-O

For anyone looking for employment at Hogwarts, Britain's premier learning institute, Harry had just found a shortcut. Get into a minor scuffle in front of the Headmaster, and he'd have you hired before you could hardly understand what was happening. Less than a day had passed since his evening drink at the Three Broomsticks, and somehow he found himself sitting behind a desk in Hogwarts— his own desk.

The surface was covered with piles of books and sheets of parchment, maddening piles of lesson plan requests, required texts, and Ministry standards. He should've been working on it, but instead Harry found himself staring, dumbfounded, at the nameplate on the front of the desk.

Professor Potter

Muggle Studies.

"How did this happen?" he asked the empty room.