Marius Vale turned the envelope over twice.

It was thick cream parchment. The wax was indigo, stamped with a phoenix that looked like it might rise right off the flap if he stared too long. No mistaking the handwriting. No mistaking the sender.

Albus Dumbledore had written to him personally.

Vale sat heavily at the little desk in his rented flat, boots kicked off near the hearth, coat half-slipped from his shoulders. The room smelled faintly of firewhisky and spell oil. He’d been back from a short contract with the DMLE only a week, and he’d half-hoped for a stretch of quiet before the next bloody summons. Apparently not.

He broke the wax. The parchment unfolded with a creak. He read with a heavy sigh;

My dear Marius,

It has been many years since I last had the pleasure of seeing your handwriting across an essay, or your wand raised in the old duelling chamber. I hope this letter finds you in good health, and that the years since you left these halls have been neither unkind nor uneventful. More than one colleague has brought me word of your career, your diligence in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, your steady hand in field work where others faltered, your unflagging interest in the finer intricacies of counter-hexes. None of this surprised me. Even as a student you had an eye for the mechanisms of a curse, and a patience that outlasted frustration. I am glad to know that those qualities have served you well.

I imagine you have had triumphs, and perhaps some wounds, in your years since Hogwarts. Such is the fate of those who take seriously the defence of others. I trust that you have allowed yourself moments of rest between assignments, though I know too well how men of your dedication are apt to neglect their own ease. I should like to hear of your travels, and of the roads that brought you from those first classroom wards to the wide field of duty. You would do me a kindness in writing back, not merely to accept or refuse the offer that follows, but to tell an old teacher how his student has fared beyond the castle stones.

Now to the matter at hand. We have need of a teacher whose understanding of counter-curses exceeds fashion, and whose patience outlasts even these ancient walls. I would ask you to accept the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor for the coming year. Officially, you will instruct our students in the principles and practice of defensive magic. Unofficially, I would also entrust you with a second task… to observe a certain anomaly surrounding the post itself. It has troubled us for years, and though you are not asked to resolve it, I would value your eyes upon it. You are not to attempt any unbinding alone. Logs must be kept, student safety held paramount.

I do not demand a victory. I request clarity. Should you accept, you would be both professor and witness, and in that witness perhaps lies the chance to name what others have only whispered.

With warm regards, and fond remembrance of the boy who once argued footnotes with me past midnight.

PS: Deference to Madam Pince in all matters of documentary access is non-negotiable.

Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore

Vale sighed again slowly, tapping the parchment against his knee. Defence Against the Dark Arts. The cursed post. Everyone knew the stories, professors lasting barely a year, some leaving mad, some not leaving at all. The curse was whispered in Auror barracks, muttered over late pints, but never officially acknowledged. And now the headmaster wanted him to walk into it.

He leaned back, chair groaning. He set the letter on the desk and reached for the half-empty glass. The whisky burned down his throat.

“Defence professor,” he muttered. “Bloody marvellous.”

Patience outlasting castle stones.

Observe a long-standing anomaly.

Do not act alone.

Vale rubbed at his temple, then pulled quill and parchment closer. If he was going to accept, and he suspected he already had the moment he cracked that wax, then he would do it on his own terms.

He dipped the quill, ink catching in the lamplight.

Dear Headmaster,

I’ll keep logs, defer to Pince (Merlin help us), and keep the children alive, which is more than I can say for most field assignments.

You asked not for victory, but for clarity. Clarity I can try to give. But if you’ve set me against something that’s been chewing through even you for decades, you’d better be ready for the mess that follows.

M. Vale

He sanded the page, folded it, and sealed it with a drop of red wax.

The owl was already tapping at the sill, clever eyes gleaming. Vale tied the letter to its leg and watched it vanish into the night.

***

Marius Vale landed just outside Hogsmeade Station with a thump that rattled his teeth. He never did Apparition gracefully, his landing technique had been described once by an unimpressed Auror as “a man falling sideways out of a wardrobe.” True to form, he stumbled, muttered a curse, then righted himself, dusting his coat.

He set off toward the castle with his battered trunk levitating behind him. The trunk rattled occasionally, not from dangerous artifacts but from a stash of liquorice wands he’d bought on impulse in Diagon Alley. Vale had a habit of chewing them when thinking, which made him look like a surly schoolboy rather than an accomplished curse-breaker.

He paused as he reached the gates and muttered, “Well, here’s hoping the walls don’t spit me out by Christmas.”

Marius saw Flitwick and McGonagall already inside as he stepped into the office, and despite the years he couldn’t help slouching like a boy caught sneaking out of bed.

“Hi,” he said, a bit too casual. Then coughed, straightened. “Er… good evening.”

Dumbledore waved him forward, eyes bright as he poured tea. Vale sat down, trying not to feel twelve again.

“Professor Vale,” Dumbledore said warmly. “Welcome back to Hogwarts.”

“Still feels strange hearing that,” Vale muttered. He glanced at the shelves, the whirring instruments, the phoenix preening in the corner. “And still smells the same. Tea leaves and chaos.”

Dumbledore’s smile deepened. “Some things do not change. Now, expectations. Your first duty is teaching. Defence first, everything else second. Any irregularities with the post are to be logged, not engaged. If you wish to attempt a ritual, it must be reviewed by Professor Flitwick. Any matter involving the school’s structure requires Professor McGonagall’s approval.”

Vale nodded, half-smiling. “So I’m not allowed to blow up a corridor without permission. Good to know.”

Flitwick let out a laugh, voice piping. “A sensible policy! It’s amazing how many young professors forget to ask before rearranging the floor plan.”

Vale chuckled. “Don’t worry, Professor. I’m far too lazy to move furniture by accident.”

McGonagall’s lips twitched, almost a laugh.

Dumbledore lifted his cup. “Confidence and caution both, Mr Vale. Hold to those, and you may last longer than most.”

Vale clinked his cup back, liquorice stick still wedged in his teeth. “I’ll settle for making it to spring term without setting off the ceiling.”

Dumbledore set his cup down with a soft clink. “One more thing, Professor Vale. Let us keep this matter between ourselves and the few gathered here. The History of Magic professor, Rosier, has a… particular curiosity for what does not belong to him. He is sharp, too sharp for his own good, and prone to looking where he shouldn’t. With your expertise outranking his in these matters, I do not doubt you could evade him. Or better yet, I would prefer you not to interact overmuch. It would be… simpler.”

Flitwick gave a cheerful chuckle. “Sharp, yes and magnetised to trouble. He asks more questions than even I can answer, and that is saying something.”

McGonagall let out a long sigh. “If curiosity were a disciplinary offence, we’d be taking statements twice a week.”

Vale arched a brow but kept quiet, chewing the end of his liquorice wand thoughtfully. If they were warning him this pointedly on his first night back, the man must be a complication worth noting. He would keep an eye for that one.

Spoiler

[collapse]

A fine poem I love, just dropping it here in case you’d like to enjoy it too.

Spoiler

And what would you have me do?

Look for a patron or else someone in power

To crawl up, as ivy a trunk or a tower,

And licks the bark of its guardian who sets it on course,

And climbs up by trickery instead of by force?

Non, merci. Dedicate my verses as all others do

To bankers? Become a buffoon

In hopes to see on the lips of a minister

The curve of a smile that is all but sinister?

Non, merci. Dine each day upon a toad?

Have my stomach worn out from slithering down the road?

And from kneeling, soon dirty the skin on my knees?

Bend over backwards for naught but to please?

Non, merci. Be caressing the neck of the goat with one hand,

Meanwhile with the other be watering the land,

And when asked for milk, dish out the cream,

Always be perfuming someone, it seems?

Non, merci! From lap to lap be grown and spawned,

Be a small fish trapped in a big pond,

And propel myself with madrigals for sails,

Blown slowly on by old ladies’ wails?

Non, merci! At the editing house of Sercy

Be paid to edit his verses? Non, merci!

Become christened a pope amongst the councils

That, in the cabarets, become house to imbeciles?

Non, merci! Work hard to insert a name

Into a sonnet, not for joy, but for fame?

Non, merci! Have to search for talent where there’s none to be found?

Be terrorised by every newspaper around,

And incessantly say “Oh how I wish

To be in the papers by Monsieur Francis”?

Non, merci! Calculate, know fear, be pale, or worse,

Prefer making visits over written verse,

Draw up petitions for every last thing?

Non, merci! Non, merci! Non, merci! But… to sing,

To dream, to laugh, to move on, to be free, on my own

To have a keen eye and a voice of strong tone,

Wear my hat awry as I prefer,

For no reason at all engage in combat or pen a verse!

To work without worry of glory or fortune

Such a voyage of which we dream to the moon!

Pen not a line that from myself departs

And comes from anywhere except straight from my heart,

Be satisfied with flowers, leaves, fruits of the land

If they’re in your own garden and grew by your hand!

And, if at all, you should triumph by chance,

Don’t give unto Cesar, take up your stance

Stand up for yourself, you merit, ‘ti’s thee

In short, the parasitic ivy I disdain to be

So even without the tree or the stone

I won’t get very high, perhaps, but alone!

[collapse]

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep