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Chapter Text

Perhaps he didn’t drink enough of it that evening. Or perhaps he’d drunk too much over time and it just wasn’t as potent anymore. Whatever the case, there were some nights where the Draught of Dreamless Sleep that Aesop Sharp relied on before bed failed in its duty to protect him from himself.

And so he dreamed.

It was always the same dream, which wasn’t really a dream, but a memory twisted by time and tempered by guilt and regret into some new and maddening form.

Auror Aesop Sharp and Senior Auror Alfred Blunt could not have been more different as partners. Where one had made a fine name for himself and was still looking for more from his life in magical law enforcement, the other was further on in years and more concerned with making the wizarding world a safer place, rather than any illustrious career moves. Sharp was brilliant, with many calling him “one of the best.” He could provide support against the slowness that was starting to overtake Alfred’s step, but not his mind. Likewise, Alfred served as a buffer against Sharp’s sometimes-too-quick decisions and brazen behavior. Their dynamic just worked, even though Blunt was adamant about “somebody keeping the boy in line.”

January in 1881 was the coldest that Sharp had ever experienced, and he shivered reflexively in his sleep. He and his partner had been tracking a small smuggling operation for a few days, and their search (and one recovered shrunken head that was very willing to talk) eventually led them to Scarborough Harbor. At the time, the scent of deep brine coming off the sea had smelled like victory.

These days, he couldn’t get near saltwater without his leg aching.

Sharp had already made up his mind that it was a simple case. He was sure the two of them could handle this with their wands tied behind their backs. There was no sign that the single smuggling suspect they’d been watching was anything more than a Hogwarts dropout (which the head in the possession of the Auror’s Office more or less confirmed). Nothing to be worried about, at any rate.

Blunt, his dinner disrupted that evening by the owl that came to his home with instructions to make his way to Scarborough Harbor, was decidedly less enthused about the whole ordeal, and reminded Sharp several times on their way to the location that it was always better to be overprepared and disappointed than to be underprepared and surprised. All he got in response was an occasional grunt.

Obscured from sight with a stealth charm and crouching behind several wooden barrels (Sharp, a prolific potions master, had argued that there was no need to expend the resources on an Invisibility potion, since it was just one smuggler), the two aurors looked about. They were close to the end of the commercial pier at Scarborough Harbor, closest to the open sea, where the bigger boats and small ships were docked. A few weathered seamen milled around, some deep in the throes of work that was never done, others moving just to try to keep warm.

Blunt blew on his hands softly, careful not to make much noise. Even in silence, Sharp could tell that anyone within earshot tomorrow was going to hear about this if it didn’t pan out. He focused through the stinging sensation creeping its way through his toes that he couldn’t alleviate with spell nor potion, lest it emit heat or light and give away their position.

Sharp tapped Blunt on the shoulder twice, the signal to move. They crept along the pier toward their target, a small single-stack steamer called the Briarfinch. Fog swirled around her, and all but a handful of deck lanterns were extinguished. To anyone, wizard or Muggle, she appeared deserted. 

After speaking with the shrunken head they managed to recover a few days prior through covert means, Sharp had gone over the harbormaster’s records while Blunt distracted him via the use of a Polyjuice potion and some very good acting skills, honed over a long career. The head didn’t know the ship’s name, but had a little information about the crates to go on. Looking at the logs, the timing of shipments, as well as cargo labeled as “exotic souvenirs and novelty items” were the closest match he could find. After a few more inquiries, he was as sure as ever that this was a simple job. He’d prepared lightly, his usual array of potions and other tools pared down to just a small handful of magical items.

The pair reached the Briarfinch’s gangway, inexplicably extended and immensely unwelcoming. Sharp started up the incline, but Blunt grabbed him by the shoulder.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Aesop. I’m not convinced this is a one man operation. Perhaps we should request backup.”

Sharp dismissed him with a cluck of his tongue.

“Oh come now, Alfred. I’ve done my homework, and you heard the head yourself. There’s only one smuggler- on this side of things, anyway. We board, we investigate, we confiscate, we arrest, and we call it an evening. We may even get a commendation for this, depending on what else is here.” 

Sharp started up the gangway, but Blunt grabbed him again. He stood there, barely visible, one foot on the brow, one foot on the pier, waiting for whatever came next. 

As such, neither of them noticed the small, glinting speck of light that shot up the gangway and across the deck.

“We should check for traps, Aesop.” Blunt said. There was no room for argument.

Sharp rolled his eyes, but produced his wand and waved it about discreetly. No traps tripped. He looked at Blunt, expectant. When he got no response except folded arms, he groaned.

“Alfred, it’s a Muggle ship. I’d be more concerned about one of their strange explosive devices going off than about anything else. Besides, we’ve handled far worse than anything that could be on this vessel. I promise that if anything looks amiss, we’ll retreat and call for help. Now either come with me or stay here. Your choice.”

Blunt sighed, seeing no other option. 

“Not like I’m going to let you out of my sight for even a second. Who knows what trouble you could get into?”

Within minutes, the two had boarded the small steamer and were tucked away in the shadow of the foremast. As it had from the docks, the Briarfinch looked deserted. A few lingering crates were stacked around the forward cargo hatch, waiting to be stowed away.

Blunt straightened and drew out his beloved pocket watch, popping the delicately filigreed lid open with a small click.

“Looks like one person passed by here about…” he said, bringing the dial closer to his face in the darkness and squinting against his own limited visibility, “eighteen minutes ago.”

The senior auror snapped the front lid of the watch closed and flipped it over, popping open a second, equally detailed cover on the back. He stared at the exposed dial intently for a moment.

“Think your man is here, Sharp. Down in the aft hold, one person, magically-inclined. Let’s see what else is up here, while we’re topside. But be careful about it.”

Sharp cast about, looking for danger or prying eyes. Finding nothing amiss, he and Blunt made themselves visible once again. Sharp waved his wand in front of one of the crates with a quiet whisper of Cistem Aperio . The nails loosened and the crate lid popped off. Both aurors stepped forward and peered in. Many eyes peered back. 

“Good evening, gentleheads,” Blunt began in a low voice, “Senior Auror Blunt and Auror Sharp, at your service. We’ll have you out of these crates and in custody of the Ministry as soon as we can. For now, we’ll be keeping Silencio on you and returning the lid to your crate, just in case we need to move you quickly and quietly. We’re sure you all have a lot to say, and you’ll each get your turn once we get you back to safety. Please be patient.” 

With that, Blunt placed the lid back on the box, locking it in place with the countercharm. They continued on, keeping low and staying to the shadows, peering into this bag or that box as they made their way towards the aft hatch.

“They looked scared,” Blunt said offhandedly as they crossed the weatherdeck.

“I should think you would too, if you were trapped in a dark box with no way to call for help,” Sharp replied.

The older man chuckled.

“How you can stay so dry surrounded by the ocean is a mystery to me, Sharp.”

Sharp shrugged as they reached the hold. He had already turned his attention to the hatch, unbolting and lifting the heavy door with an elegant swish-and-flick while Blunt silenced the sound of the whole affair. The younger auror conjured a ladder while Blunt made sure that, from the inside, nothing appeared to change. Then they climbed down in silence, ready for any danger.

The cargo hold was definitely bigger on the inside than it appeared from the outside. It was packed full of a chaotic assortment of crates, chests, cages and other parcels, some very clearly made by wizards, others less specific in their origin. A few strategic lanterns, already lit, swung overhead from the deck beams in lazy circles. They cast an eerie yellow glow on the haze floating lazily through the space. Sharp sniffed. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the smell. An incense, perhaps? But there was something familiar about it, just the same.

They could hear something moving further astern. Both aurors crept toward the sound, carefully moving through rows of cargo. There was a small open area, just ahead, that seemed to be where the noise was coming from. Blunt pressed himself against a tall stack of crates, gesturing for Sharp to advance. He burst out into the open area, ready to detain their suspect…

…only to find their suspect bound and gagged against a stanchion, eyes wild and straining against his bonds, his boot heels scraping fruitlessly against the metal floor.

It felt like time slowed down to a crawl (and knowing wizards, perhaps it did), as several things happened in quick succession. The hatch slammed shut loudly. Several men apparated into the hold, spread out amongst the boxes. Then, a loud noise, like a dragon waking from slumber, and both aurors lost their footing as the Briarfinch lurched forward into the night.

Finally, off-kilter and surprised, both men heard the incantation just before the searing pain of the Cruciatus brought them to their knees.

Aurors were trained to withstand curses such as Crucio for as long as possible, but other forces seemed to be at work. Sharp felt weak, unable to muster the strength to stand again. Too late, he put the pieces together and recognized the weakening potion proliferating the air, the tell-tale foul smell of white snakeroot masked by a pungent perfume. 

Sharp flushed hot with shame in his sleep. How arrogant he’d been that night, to walk them right into that mess! He threw off his blankets, rolling from side to side fretfully, as though the pain was fresh and the curse cast anew.

Another voice repeated the incantation, and Sharp felt the pain redouble. Then another followed. He and Blunt both grit their teeth against the onslaught, unable to do much else. Sharp tipped sideways, the cargo hold blurring into shadow and color, and his head met the cold metal floor a little harder than he expected. Still, he held on, willing himself to stay conscious.

A few agonizing moments passed before he felt the first waves of Crucio start to die back. He kept his eyes closed, kept a loose grip on his wand, and tried to control the bigger spasms that passed through him. His breathing came quick and shallow. For all the world, he appeared unconscious. 

The echo of approaching footsteps was muffled by the pounding in Sharp’s ears. He tensed.

“Let’s just make sure this time,” a voice said from somewhere above him.

Sharp barely registered moving, hearing the telltale crackle of dark magic only after he had rolled out of the way. He found he couldn’t apparate, and the fact that the enemy was so well prepared while he was caught so unawares was deeply unsettling.

Regaining his feet, the auror took stock of the situation. They were far astern with no discernible way out aside from the way they’d come, deeply weakened, in eye-rolling pain from the Cruciatus, and incredibly outnumbered. Every step, every wave of his wand sent jolts of suffering from his head to his toes, and the weakness potion was still suppressing much of his strength. Adding to his chagrin, he hadn’t brought Exstimulo or any counter-potions with him.

Blunt grabbed the back of Sharp’s jacket and threw him over a low steamer trunk (inside of which something was hissing ominously), He landed hard, the older auror huffing in pain beside him, but they had both narrowly avoided being turned to dust by Reducto . Then they were up, trading fire and using the lay of the land to their advantage as much as they could. 

Like most wizard battles, it was utter chaos. Wood splintered and turned into shrapnel, which was then thrown back and forth like tiny missiles that buried deep into flesh. Cages rattled their contents and beast shrieks heightened the confusion and noise. Sharp’s mind felt sluggish, and after getting hit with a few good blasts of raw energy, he was fatigued to his bones and injured to boot. 

He conjured one of the few potions he’d brought, Edurus, from his charmed pocket, and drank it down in one swig. He took comfort in the feeling of his skin turning hard as rock, and not a moment too soon, as a swift slash of Diffindo bounced off him, rather than ending him there and then.

Blunt, to his credit, was still keeping up, even as the hold stretched on and on (and on, because it was actually getting longer by the minute). However, Sharp knew him well and could see he was starting to flag. It wouldn’t be long before he’d slow them both down. They had to act.

Sharp stopped short, catching Blunt’s eye before he pushed away all the cargo around them, the scraping sounds of wood and metal on metal attracting anyone in the hold to their location. 

As expected, several smugglers ran headlong into the space they’d created, but as soon as they entered the ring, Blunt got creative with Flipendo and Wingardium Leviosa , sending them flying every which way and bouncing off a variety of objects. The rocking of the ship as it moved further out of the harbor helped in their offensive efforts, but it also tossed them around just as much. Sharp held off the incoming attacks as more and more men flooded the space. Finally, it appeared that they had incapacitated all of their attackers. Together, they bound them all into one tight, floating ball in the middle of the space.

“Ready?” Sharp called.

“As I’ll ever be. Descendo! ”

The group of smugglers came crashing to the floor with a hard smack . At the same time, Sharp pulled all of the cargo back towards them, creating a prison of objects around their attackers and penning them in. 

Save for the sounds of the ship in motion, the hold suddenly grew quiet. 

Blunt let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a wheezing chuckle of surprise and defiance.

“Godric’s Heart, that was close,” he panted, hands on his knees. 

Sharp’s Edurus potion was beginning to wear off. When it took effect, it was nearly instant, spreading quickly from the center of one’s person, but for him it dissipated in stages, usually from the head southward. He was pliant again just down to his waist, waiting on his legs to return to normal. 

“Perhaps a bit,” he groused, stretching and magicking a Wiggenweld potion from his stash over to Blunt, who looked at it hovering there with a disapproving glance. He wasn’t the biggest fan of Sharp’s reliance on potions (or anyone’s, for that matter), preferring wand work to the time-consuming process of creating elixirs, solutions, and salves. Still, he plucked it from the air, swirling the contents about as he reflected on what had just happened.

“Come on, let’s get topside and see if we can turn this rig around somehow.”

Sometimes, when he was lucky, Sharp would wake up here, drenched in a cold sweat and gasping for air, but free of the curse of reliving what came next. Luck was not with him on this particular night, however, and so it his memory marched on.

It filtered through in bits and pieces, because that was all he remembered when he’d come to later on. He remembered casting another binding spell on the cargo prison, ensuring that the smugglers could not escape. Blunt was about halfway between him and the hatch ladder when Sharp caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned, lifting his wand, but in his injured and battle weary state, he wasn’t fast enough.

The original suspect–the single smuggler they’d found bound to the stanchion–had jumped his bonds and had his wand trained on space between them.

“Lumos Crepitus! ”

Sharp had been blinded by artificial sunlight before, but this was disorienting on another level. A loud bang accompanied the flash, and he found himself unable to see or hear. He meant to lunge towards Blunt’s position, take them both down to the floor and out of harm’s way while no one could see, but he stumbled. One leg was free of Edurus, but the other was still heavy and throwing him off balance. 

The rest was blurry at best, except for the pain. It was like being hit with Crucio all over again, but instead of full-body agony, he felt white-hot heat streaking up his left side. A small mosquito buzz whispered inside his head, like hearing a scream from very far away, and the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. 

It took him awhile to realize both were coming from him.

Sharp lay where he fell, convulsing, for what felt like years. The lightning bolt under his skin seemed to wax and wane, but it held him just above oblivion. He had a dim vision of trying to lift his wand, of trying to defend himself and Blunt, but he could never be sure if he fired off a shot or not. In any case, he missed.

Something small but heavy hit the hold floor next to his head. He had no recollection of reaching for it, or even knowing what it was at the time, but he grabbed it out of instinct.

The last vivid memory he had of that time was Blunt, clearly injured but standing proud, wand ablaze with light. Sharp remembered him as he was in that instant: stern, defiant, proud. 

For a split second, they locked eyes. Sharp could swear he saw Blunt nod. 

And then he was flying through the cool air of night, away from the Briarfinch , and into the cold, dark sea.

His next memory was of being underwater. He was weightless, painless, and the sparkling ripples of the moon and stars were fading further and further away. Sharp sighed, releasing the last of the air in his lungs and settling into death’s embrace, when all of a sudden he felt a hand grab the one gripped tightly in a fist and pull, hard.

In a flash, he was ascending, a sudden surge of clarity and energy driving him back from the brink. He broke the orange-speckled surface, gasping and sputtering for air.

The Briarfinch listed dangerously to one side, engulfed in flames.

“Alfred? Alfred!” Sharp cried out, his voice thin against the sound of the blazing inferno before him. He received no response. Thick smoke bellowed from the hole punched in the port side of the vessel, the area just below where the cargo hatch had been. Just where he’d been standing, fighting, minutes before.

A strong wave pushed Sharp back down. He hiccuped uncomfortably in his sleep, choking on air instead of water.

He remembered finding a piece of floating detritus and clinging onto it. Grievously injured, freezing, and in shock, he was in no shape to apparate to safety. Whenever he bubbled to the surface of his consciousness, he called out for his partner, but to no avail.

At some point, he was pulled on board a small boat. He remembered being lifted, remembered blurry faces, remembered asking them if they knew where Alfred was.

The next thing he knew, he was waking up in the hospital, days later, looking down at the pocket watch that no one had been able to remove from his hand, not even by way of magic.

Time felt fragmented after that. Sharp’s road to recovery wasn’t entirely straightforward. The hospital staff was able to heal his ruptured eardrums, his damaged eyesight, his broken bones and burns and all other manner of bumps and bruises, but still the process took time. They were even able to set his mind on the road to recovery, though he refused their offer to Obliviate his memory of that night. He slept, often, being given as many potions of peace and calm as he needed, and he let himself process what he had lost, and how.

Unfortunately, the hospital staff were far less successful in their treatment of his leg. Doctors and nurses came from all over the hospital to try to help, but nothing worked. All agreed that the last effects of the Edurus potion had kept Sharp alive when he was hit in the leg with an otherwise lethal blast of something , but what that something was, no one could say, not even the auror himself. And without knowing, there was little more they could do than make him as comfortable as possible. 

Sharp allowed the hospital to do whatever experiments they pleased with him during his stay, but in exchange, he demanded to attend Blunt’s funeral. His doctors all denied his request, and he despaired that he would miss it, but one of the nurses finally took pity on him. She transfigured his hospital clothes into a respectable suit, and had called him a carriage to the gravesite. She fought him on the use of a wheelchair, but in the end, he opted for an enchanted cane that compensated for his inability to put more than a feather’s worth of weight on his leg. 

The rain was cold that morning as he cautiously lumbered out of the carriage. Sharp made his way to the gathering of people, slowly, every step a painful reminder of just why he was here. Some faces were familiar, others were not. Nevertheless, he stood in the back, not wanting to become the focus of the event as a reminder of what was left behind.

The ceremony itself should have held his attention, but it didn’t. It was dull and devoid of anything that made Alfred Blunt who he was. Instead, he found himself sliding between his thoughts, the empty space where Alfred’s body should’ve been (and where one of his suits and his recovered auror badge had been laid out in his place), and the two people standing closest to the headstone.

Sharp had known Blunt was a family man. After being partners for so long, he’d heard about them frequently, and remembered when he’d been temporarily reassigned while Blunt celebrated the birth of his only child. He’d been happy for Blunt, but very unhappy with the temporary partner he’d been assigned to. By the end of Alfred’s leave, Sharp was deeply considering the possibility of creating a potion that prevented one from ever chewing-or even opening their mouth-again.

Blunt’s wife Clarissa dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, but nothing stemmed the tide of her tears. She made it through the speech as well as one could expect, but when the orator stumbled, "committing thy body” rather than Alfred's memory, she threw herself at the altar and wailed wildly. She had to be dragged off before the internment magic took her by mistake. 

In contrast, a small figure stood quietly near the grave marker the entire time, eyes downcast. Sharp fingered the watch in his pocket, wondering if he should give her a memento of her father. Little Jessamine Blunt would turn eleven soon; perhaps he would send an owl with the watch anonymously to Hogwarts when she arrived, so as not to cause more grief to her mother.

Sharp’s sleeping mind skipped ahead to the end of the funeral. He stood in the rain, staring at the grave, as witches and wizards alike moved about to speak in small groups, protected from the downpour by hovering umbrellas. 

He was lost in thought when he felt a tug on the hem of his jacket, and looked down to find the large, grief-dark eyes of Blunt’s daughter looking up at him. 

“Excuse me, but did you know my father?” She asked. His heart twisted with guilt, and he cleared his throat.

“Yes, I knew him. I knew him very well.”

“Did you work with him?” She continued on, wiping at her eyes with the back of her gloved hand.

“Yes, I did. We were partners.” Sharp murmured.

The child nodded, taking this in.

“Do you know what happened to him? No one will tell me.”

He would have told her, wanted to tell her everything, but suddenly she was pulled backwards, tucked safely behind her mother’s skirts.

It was at that moment that Sharp’s alarm clock (enchanted, of course) sang out that it was morning, and woke him from his slumber. He sat bolt upright, disturbed and unrested. 

The rest of the memory flashed through his mind. Clarissa, screaming at him that this was all his fault and needing to be ushered away by several folks with judging eyes, Sharp’s cane dozing off on the job and causing him to stumble, and being confined to a wheelchair for a year on after that. 

He’d heard rumors that the Blunt family had moved far, far away through the grapevine. He found himself wondering after them from time to time, but kept far away, hoping to preserve whatever peace they may have had. 

Of course, he was never quite fit to return to active duty as an auror. Unable to return his leg to a functional state, even after three years of recovery, he opted out of continuing to push paper for the Ministry and decided to take up the position of Potions Professor at Hogwarts. Seven years had passed since his change of profession, and he was still hopeful for a cure.

Sharp wiped his hand over his face, sighing heavily. He winced, picking up his bad leg and manually swinging it over the edge of the bed. It had been much worse since the ancient magic incident deep below Hogwarts that winter. Some days were harder than others.

As his gaze flicked to the tarnished pocket watch sitting on his nightstand, he could only hope better days were coming.

Chapter Text

“Thirty-seven…thirty-eight…thirty-nine…”

Sharp grunted with the effort, the fortieth broom-up of the morning just a bit more difficult than he would’ve liked. He’d been easy on himself recently, especially after the events of the previous winter set him back to walking with a cane for several weeks, but he decided to increase his readiness efforts ahead of the upcoming school year.

After all, who knew what could happen?

His broom gently lowered toward the floor, and he made sure he was stable on his feet before letting go. Like always, Sharp missed his early morning walks, but he supposed this still got the job done well enough. 

He made it through his regimen of lifts (incrementally increasing the weight of his wand between curling sets), and had moved on to target practice when the owl came.

Few knew that Sharp kept a cottage to himself, nestled delicately between the highlands and the forest. Needing to feel less burdensome to everyone around him, he’d used it as a place of convalescence due to its proximity to Hogsmeade and the supplies therein. When he became a professor and took quarters at the school, he simply never dissolved his ownership. He almost never stayed for more than a few days at a time, and even then, he rarely strayed from his study during waking hours. There was something off-putting about how quiet the place was. He couldn’t seem to get used to it, after living and working in large cities nearly all his life. Most of the time, when the other professors went home twice a year, Sharp stayed on in his small chambers at Hogwarts, keeping amiable company with the portraits, cats, and house elves. Even so, the occasional return to his investment was warranted, if only to make sure the place was still standing. 

It was to this dusty, sad little cottage that the owl brought Sharp’s morning missive. The bird stopped off on his bedroom windowsill, where it lay the letter down neatly before taking off once again. Chest heaving with exertion, Sharp lowered his wand and took up the envelope. He sat down in a tatty high-backed chair near the window and broke the familiar seal on the back of the letter. 

The message was short and simple: Would he please be so kind as to journey to Hogwarts for a staff meeting that morning?

Sharp ran a hand through his damp hair while considering. He’d had plans for the day, which had included posting a letter to his brother, running a few errands in the village, and then working on a new soothing salve ahead of the winter months. He could simply say he was too busy to go. Then again, he wasn’t one to make excuses, and he wouldn’t mind heading back to the castle early this year. So, standing with effort, he began readying himself to depart.

It was a bit later that morning when Matilda Weasley settled into her seat with a cup of tea, waiting for the others to arrive. The early August air had turned balmy, and even when she was tucked into the staff room, she could feel the thin blanket of humidity beginning to settle over the castle. It was the perfect day for sleeping in or lazing about, she thought.

But that luxury was not for the Hogwarts staff.

She wasn’t left to herself for long. Professors Shah and Onai slipped in first, both looking relaxed and content. Weasley greeted them, and the trio chatted amiably about their breaks and their aspirations for the upcoming school year.

Professor Hecat followed shortly thereafter, and when asked about her holiday, she gravely replied that she dare not speak of what she’d done or where she’d been. After a beat, she chuckled, and the tension disappeared as quickly as it had come (and, as it turned out, she’d gone to Salem in America to visit her sister. Unfortunately, her sister’s children were never quite sure if she were their aunt or their grandmother, but she took it in stride and let them keep guessing).

Professors Kogawa and Howin came in together, chatting about herding techniques while mounted upon a broomstick.

They were followed by Professor Sharp, who limped in alone and took his seat slowly, carefully. Not for the first time, Weasley offered him a little smile, wishing that Hogwarts’ anti-apparition charms were a little more nuanced, able to recognize friend from foe. Currently, the only exception belonged to the house elves, and Headmaster Black saw no reason to change that.

Professors Ronen and Garlick were last, trundling through the doorway as though fresh from slumber, both stifling yawns to varying degrees of success.

Nobody expected Professor Binns when it came to staff meetings. He couldn’t receive a letter, which means someone would have to go tell him about the meeting, and risk lengthy diatribe about this staff meeting in the year 1786, or that meeting in 1838.

Two chairs still stood empty. The first, at the head of the table, belonged to Headmaster Black, who was–Weasley checked her watch–now six minutes late. It didn’t surprise her. The man was never on time for anything, except appointments with his tailor- and then only if he were in a good mood. She itched to move forward, to start and finish without his oppressive presence and snippy tongue. Still, he was a required part of the decision-making process, so she waited.

The second chair had belonged to Professor Eleazar Fig.

It was this chair that was the subject of today’s meeting. Weasley could see many pairs of eyes sliding over it now and then, expressions dulling into sadness and then quickly snapped up into smiles. Most of the gathered staff pointedly tried not to focus on it, but it was notable that both Professors Hecat and Sharp seemed to settle on staring at it with closed, yet thoughtful expressions. A product of their previous lives, she thought to herself.

Eventually, polite holiday conversation exhausted itself, and the room fell silent. Professor Ronen looked around.

“Do you think he got lost again?” He ventured.

Sharp snorted, but said nothing.

“Perhaps the gargoyles won’t let him in,” Garlick offered with none of her usual gentility (she had a tendency to become grumpy when sleepy, or when dealing with the Headmaster. Doubly so when both were involved).

The door slammed open.

“And is it so bad that they might mistake a delightfully youthful face for that of a student, Professor Garlick? Seeing as you’re here, yours clearly no longer fits that description, though I daresay if they knew you played in the mud all day, they’d be sure to give far more lip.” Headmaster Black snapped back as he strode in self-righteously.

Garlick rolled her eyes, hiding her sour expression under the brim of her hat. Weasley cleared her throat. 

“Good morning, Headmaster. We are ready to begin.” She started.

“Yes, yes, let’s get this over with, better things to do, better places to be.” He made a show of dusting off his seat before plunking down into it, face petulant and sour. 

Clearing her throat and seeing all heads turn towards her, Weasley stood up. 

“Good morning to you all, and thank you for coming. The topic of today’s meeting is quite a sobering one, so I will be brief. Now that Professor Fig is no longer with us-” she glanced at the empty chair, a now-familiar squeeze present in her chest- ”It is time to select a new professor for the Magical Theory position. 

“I trust most of you are familiar with our typical selection process. Usually we receive hundreds of applications from qualified applicants and a stellar selection from the Ministry, but, as many hold the belief that Magical Theory is somehow a less… exciting post than some of our other classes, and after the incidents over the last school year, fewer applications have been submitted. It is perhaps a pity for them, but then again, it means we will get through this a bit more quickly than usual. Shall we begin?”

There were nods of assent from around the room, and Weasley smartly conjured a thin sheaf of papers to the table. 

“Professor Onai, if you please?”

Onai stood, smoothing her clothes and drawing a small item on a chain from around her neck. She moved to stand over the documents, pressing the object between her hands and closing her eyes. After a moment, a small crystal pendant dropped from her palms over the papers and began to sway. 

The papers began to wiggle and slide over each other, separating into two distinct piles. Soon, the crystal stilled, and the last application on the table picked a side. After a moment, the stack on the left simply vanished. The far smaller group on the right stayed behind.

“These are the most qualified applicants,” Onai announced before sitting back down. 

Weasley nodded, placing her hands on the papers. There were less than fifteen sheets. She conjured enough duplicates for each member of staff and passed them around. 

“Well done, and thank you professor Onai. Headmaster, would you like to begin the review?”

Black’s head snapped up where it had been lolling.

“No, no, quite alright, thank you. Carry on.” He yawned.

“But, Headmaster Black, we–” Weasley started, but Black shook his head.

“No please, talk amongst yourselves. It’s not like anyone listens to me, anyway. I said we should just get rid of Magical Theory altogether. No one has ever learned anything useful from it that they wouldn’t get out of practical application. It’s a waste of time and resources. I mean, just look at what happened the last time!”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. The Headmaster looked about, mouth opening and closing a couple times like a fish out of water. Finally, he clucked his tongue.

“Well I suppose you’ll all be delighted to know it isn’t my decision this time. I’ve been informed by the powers that be that my request to remove the class from the curriculum has been denied. As such, you can continue with your little review here, just be quick about it.” Black folded his arms and slumped back in his chair.

Weasley could see a couple professors gearing up to respond. She jumped in before the situation could devolve further.

“Thank you, Headmaster Black, we will continue on. Now, if we could all review the remaining applications, we will make a group decision as to those we would like to speak with further.”

For the next half-hour, the professors put their heads together, talking around the table and chatting in groups. Most of the applications were set aside for one reason or another (“too self-righteous,” “they have a criminal record!” and so on), and by the end of the stack, they had only voted yes on two potential candidates, neither of whom felt like the right fit after Fig, but who appeared to be proper Hogwarts professor material, at least.

Flipping to the next sheet in her pile, Garlick squinted, then smiled.

“Hey, I know her!” She leaned over to show Professor Weasley, who suddenly looked very interested.

“Really? Is she a friend?” The assistant headmistress asked.

“A recently cultivated one, yes. We met at a conference early this spring, and we’ve kept in touch since. We meet every so often for drinks and to talk.”

Professor Shah tapped her papers.

“Which applicant are you talking about?”

Garlick flicked her wand, turning Shah’s papers over for her.

“This one, here. Jessamine Stoughton.”

Sharp, who had been dutifully looking over another applicant, gave a start.

“Alright, Sharp?” Howin asked, looking over at him.

“Yes, thank you. Apologies,” he murmured. 

The professor quickly flipped to the applicant sheet in question, and was greeted with small, neat penmanship. 

Stoughton, the sheet confirmed. Not the same Jessamine, then. There must be many people with that name, he mused, relaxing. Though, he supposed she could be married by now. Still, the world was too big and he was too far removed from it all for such a coincidence.

Ronen frowned. 

“See here, Mirabel, it says here she has no formal wizarding education! How can we even consider letting someone with no training teach such young and malleable minds?”

Professor Hecat stepped in.

“Careful, Abraham. While I don’t entirely disagree with you from a safety standpoint, we shouldn’t discount someone based on the experiences they had no control over. Children are subject to the actions of their parents, and for whatever reason, hers did not permit her to attend wizarding school. If the applicant is qualified, then she’s qualified.” 

“Please allow me to explain,” Garlick amended, ”Miss Stoughton was a speaker at the conference I attended. She spoke on the importance of Giovane Verde’s infamous herbology manuscript, and what its recent disappearance might mean for the wizarding world. As you might expect, she was not terribly popular, but she grew on me just the same.”

“So she’s a specialist in Herbology, then? Or a historical scholar?” Howin raised a brow, but Garlick shook her head.

“I wouldn’t say that. She seems well-versed in a variety of subjects, most of which are highly technical. I’m afraid I haven’t been able to answer half of the questions she’s come up with when we speak.”

“But she’s only just turned twenty-one! How can she have the necessary experience to teach?” Kogawa tsk ’d. 

“With all due respect, Madam Kogawa, I am the youngest professor here right now. Did you have the same concerns during my selection process?” Garlick asked gently.

Kogawa shook her head. “No, but we knew you and your abilities already. Plus, you were twenty-two, and came to us with a lifetime of experience.”

Sharp’s mind raced. It couldn’t be, could it? She’d be about that age, he thought. What if it was her? Would she even remember? Did it even matter? Was he the only one that would feel out of place, or would his presence make her equally miserable? 

The discussion continued on around him, the rest of the table unaware of his discomfort.

“Would you say that she’s a good fit for Hogwarts, Mirabel?” Weasley prompted. 

The Herbology professor looked thoughtful, then nodded.

“Oh absolutely. She’s always sprouting new ideas and questions that really cut to the root of most magic, and she knows so much already. I think Hogwarts could really be the place where she blooms to her full potential.”

“Thank you, Mirabel, this has been very insightful.” Weasley smiled. “However, I think we all have questions that would need to be answered by the applicant in person.”

With a delicate wave of her wand, a new paper appeared in the middle of the table, along with a quill and inkwell.

 All in favor of conducting an interview?”

Shah, Onai, Hecat, and Garlick each produced a glowing white orb in front of them.

“All against?”

Black, Kogawa, Ronen and Howin each formed a black orb. 

Professor Weasley looked at Sharp quizzically. 

“Professor Sharp? What is your vote?”

“Hm? Oh.” He shook himself from his stupor, and produced a black orb with a flick of his wand.

Better safe than sorry.

Weasley frowned, then cast her own vote. Five white orbs and five black orbs settled themselves above the paper in the middle of the table.

“Well it looks like we’ll need to commence with a tiebreaker,” she started, but faltered as a gruff ahem! sounded from behind her.

To everyone’s surprise, Professor Binns floated in through the wall, stopping in front of the fireplace.

“I am sorry for being late, I do not recall being informed of this meeting. What is it we are discussing?”

“Thank you for coming, Professor Binns. We didn’t wish to disturb you,” the assistant headmistress said, not unkindly. “We were just discussing an applicant for the position of Magical Theory Professor. We seem to have a tie. Five for an interview, and five against. Would you like to vote?”

Binns floated over, and Weasley levitated the application up for him to peruse. He pursed his lips, hmm ing to himself here and there as he read. 

“So you say five of you are for interviewing the girl, and five are not? I am reminded of a time where something similar happened during the Great Scottish Seer Insurrection of Fifteen-Seventeen. General McTaggert and four of his men met with Vizier De’Scry…”

Binns went on for a few minutes, until most members of staff could practically hear Headmaster Black’s blood boiling. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Would you please get to the point, Binns? We don’t need a history lesson every time you come to a meeting!” 

Binns stopped, looking as affronted as he could manage.

“History is how we learn , Headmaster. I seem to recall that your father’s father also held a similar view about this most important topic…”

Black groaned, before swishing his wand curtly.

One of the black orbs turned white. Sharp’s stomach gave a small squeeze of discontent. 

“There. Majority in favor, call the woman in or whatever it was you were going to do. Are we done now?”

Without waiting for further comment, the Headmaster heaved himself to his feet and stalked out of the room. Binns continued on, nonplussed. The enchanted quill hovering above the middle of the table quickly turned out a message inviting the applicant to Hogwarts for an interview on the morrow. Blotting and then primly folding and sealing itself into an envelope, the letter arranged itself atop the other two, ready to be sent out.

One by one, all the other wizards and witches slipped out of the staff room, leaving a tired looking Professor Weasley to try to stay awake to the end of Binns’ speech.

~~~

The rest of the day passed much too quickly for Sharp’s liking. He busied himself in his classroom, setting things to rights for the upcoming school year and then throwing himself deeply into another treatise on the healing effects of mandrake flower he’d drug out of the library. Anything to occupy his otherwise churning thoughts. A few of his colleagues stopped in to chat, but sensing his mood, cut their conversations off early and left him to himself. 

Only Professor Weasley braved his mood, later that evening.

He was scribbling some notes into his personal compendium of research when his lamp guttered slightly, and he looked up to see the door to his Potions classroom creak open. 

“I thought you might still be here, Aesop. Any progress?”

Stretching, he nodded towards a chair. Weasley seated herself.

“Perhaps. I have a lead on a decoction of mandrake flower that might prove useful.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen one flower! Do you have an illustration, by chance?”

In the back of his mind, Sharp wondered what this was all about; nevertheless, he floated the book over his desk and into Weasley’s lap, turning it to the right page with a flick of his wand. The assistant headmistress examined the drawing closely.

“Well isn’t that something? It’s such a delicate little thing for such a…decidedly indelicate plant.” The book gently placed itself back atop Sharp’s bookstand.

An uncomfortable silence followed.

“Aesop, I wanted to speak with you about this morning. Forgive me if this is none of my business, but you looked very uncomfortable while we discussed Miss Stoughton's candidacy, and it’s not like you to cast a nay vote without context. I wanted to ask: is there some reason you would not want Miss Stoughton to take this position?”

Sharp considered his options. Professor Weasley was a friend, and knew about the events that led him to his current position. However, he couldn’t even be certain that Jessamine Stoughton was, in fact, a ghost from his past. 

In the end, he sighed, meeting Weasley’s understanding gaze.

“Please forgive me. The applicant’s name was familiar- I thought I might know her as a victim of an old crime. It was jarring, to think on how much time has passed, and I let old wounds open and get the better of me. I have nothing against this Miss Stoughton, and even if it happens that we have met before, I would not beget her this position, nor would I stand in the way of her candidacy.” 

Weasley held him in her gaze just a moment too long. He knew that she figured there was more to the story, but to her credit, she said nothing further. She stood.

“I appreciate your candor. Will you be alright with further involvement, tomorrow?”

Sharp inclined his head.

“Certainly. I will treat the situation with due fairness.”

Weasley smiled.

“Thank you. Oh, and do let me know how you fare with your mandrake flower potion; I’m sure Mirabel would be thrilled to assist.” 

“I will. Goodnight, Matilda.”

“Goodnight, Aesop. See you in the morning.”

Upon Weasley’s departure, Sharp sat back in his chair, conjuring his pipe and blowing lazy smoke rings into the air. He stared out across his classroom without really seeing it for some time, thinking about everything and nothing at all. He stayed there until the wee hours, only snapped out of his reverie when the dungeon-dwelling ghosts began rattling their chains calamitously. By the time he was wrapped in his dressing gown and sat before the fire with a cup of tea, he had set aside his concerns completely.

It was all just a coincidence.

It had to be.

Chapter Text

It was mid-morning the next day when a group of butterflies scattered from their perch atop a crop of bluebells. They had been affronted by the skirts of a young woman, cresting a hill on the road that led to Hogwarts. She stopped, surprised to be suddenly enveloped in a cloud of colorful wings, and watched them fly away for a moment. From the other direction, a couple on matching broomsticks lazily whooshed along, slowing down to look at her curiously as they passed. She paid them no mind, tucking a strand of sandy blonde hair behind her ear. The sun was already hot on her shoulders, there was dirt on her best skirt, and she knew she would be red cheeked and breathless by the time she arrived. Even so, her face split into a wide grin when the castle came into view for the first time.

“There you are,” she murmured to herself breathlessly.

Reinvigorated, she kicked up her stride, leaving a cloud of dust in her wake.

Meanwhile, a stocky man clad in a mishmash of outdated clothing styles stood before the assemblage of staff in the formal meeting room. He was scratching anxiously at the ruffled, wrinkled neck of his white shirt when Headmaster Black cleared his throat.

“So, Mister…Sciurus, is it?”

“Y-y-yes, Headmaster, sir,” Sciurus stuttered, his beady eyes wild with apprehension. 

“Hmm. I’m not familiar with the family name. What years did you attend Hogwarts, did you say?”

A book appeared before Black, and he flipped through it idly, waiting for an answer. The newcomer fidgeted.

“It, it was eight…eighteen-sev…seventy-thr…three…seventy-three when…when I, I, I graduated. Or, or was it seventy-five?” 

The man scrunched his nose, tallying on his fingers slowly. Black’s tapping foot echoed through the chamber.

“Yes, def…definitely seven…seventy-thr-three. I think,” he squeaked.

Professor Weasley could see Black’s disdain growing as he continued flipping pages, and decided to cut him off before he could upset the man on the other side of the table. 

“Mister Sciurus, you’ve impressed us with your application, but we’d like to ask you some further questions, both technical and personal, if we may. I’ll start you off with a simple one. Can you explain the limitations of the Accio charm to us as though we were your students?”

Sciurus swallowed, pulling the tails of his jacket around him and fiddling with the frayed edges of the fabric.

“Uhm, yes. Yes, Professor. You, you see, Accio, is, uhm, it is limited pri…primarily by…by the caster’s lev…levels of con…concen…concentration, fam…familiarity wi-with the sum-summoned object, and, uhm…oh dear, oh no…I, uhm…I…”

A few quills scribbled notes, the scratching noises slicing air with a sense of purpose. Sciurus wobbled on his feet, placing his hand on the table to his right for support. Professor Garlick’s brow crinkled with concern.

“Mister Sciurus, are you quite alright? Do you need a moment to ground yourself?”

The nervous man shook his head quickly.

“N-no, thank y-you.”

There was a beat of near-silence, and then–

“Ah hah!” Black exclaimed, finger jabbing wildly at a page. Sciurus shrieked, limbs convulsing in a panic, then fainted dead away. It was only Professor Hecat’s quick wand that saved him from hitting the floor, sliding a chair up at precisely the right moment for him to collapse into.

Garlick and Weasley rose to their feet and rushed to the man’s aid. The other professors glanced amongst themselves with concern. Headmaster Black seemed not to notice anything other than what he was focused on.

“Yes, yes, here it is! You know that man is a Selwyn by blood? It’s not surprising, really, a man with such strong carriage and intellectual depth must be related to somebody important, after all.”

Sharp, Hecat, and Shah stared at Black pointedly. The headmaster looked up, and took in the scene before him. 

“Oh,” was all he said as he sank backwards into his chair.

“Mister Sciurus? Mister Sciurus, can you hear me?” Garlick patted the unconscious man’s hand. 

“ Rennervate ,” Weasley swished, and after a moment, Sciurus groaned, blinking bleary-eyed at his makeshift nursing team.

“Wha-what h-happened?” He asked. The two women strong-armed him into a more natural seated position.

“You fainted, Mister Sciurus,” Weasley replied. 

For a moment, it looked like the stout little man might fade out again, but then he flung an arm over his face and wailed.

“Ohh no! Oh no, no no no no! I, I, I c-can’t….I, I’m t-terribly sorry. Sorry, sorry sorry, so, so sorry…!”

He prattled on for a moment, the professors trying to console him, until he hung his head with a defeated whine.

Professor Weasley smiled gently, and Garlick returned to her seat.

“For what reasons have you applied to be our next Professor of Magical Theory, Mister Sciurus?”

The little man looked for all the world like a wild animal trapped in a snare. He produced a handkerchief, barely managing to catch it in the air, and dabbed around his face. One side of his mouth quirked up into what was supposed to be a grin, but it quickly fell into a grimace.

“You, you see…it’s…it’s my….it’s because of my-my m-mother…”

When he offered no more, Sharp spoke up.

“Your mother, Mister Sciurus?” 

Sciurus swallowed.

“Y-yes. Sh-she al…always w-wanted me to be m-more ah…assertive. Become a l-leader, she s-said. I…I’ve t-tried l-law enforcement, st-starting a buh…a business, and even con…conducting an…an orchestra. I w-was ho-hoping to f-f-fulfill her dreams by t-teaching the you…youth of t-tomorrow. I…I j-just w-wanted to keep b-bees. I don’t th-think I…I don’t think I’m c-cut out f-for this.” 

“Thank you for your honesty, sir, it is appreciated.” Sharp nodded curtly, folding his arms.

The other professors exchanged sympathetic glances.

“Mister Sciurus,” Professor Weasley began, ”we look for a particular set of abilities in a Hogwarts professor. Mastery of subject matter is just one of those abilities. A Hogwarts professor needs to be strong in their convictions. They need to be decisive in their actions. They need to take control of difficult situations. And, yes, they need to lead and shape the minds of young witches and wizards. 

“I think I speak for everyone when I say that, while we appreciate your time and your candor, we do not feel that you would be comfortable in this role. Magical Theory may not be our most demanding class, but it requires quite a bit of…well now, how should I put this?” She trailed off, thinking.

Sciurus waved a hand, seeming to relax a little.

“I-it’s alright, I unders-stand. Actually, you-you’ve m-made my d-day j-just by inter…interviewing m-me. Now I c-can go h-home and t-tel my m-mother that I g-gave it the old honest t-try.”

Weasley nodded.

“That’s an admirable way of looking at it, Mister Sciurus. Thank you very much for coming today. We wish you the very best in your future endeavors. Deek, if you would be so kind as to show the gentleman out?”

Deek gestured to Sciurus to follow him. The nervous man offered a clunky, perfunctory bow, then trailed after the house elf through the double doors of the meeting room. Weasley returned to her seat.

After the echo of the closing door faded, Headmaster Black spoke. 

“Well, it looks like that’s that, then. Shame the man was so impressed by- ahem -certain individuals present here today that he was simply too overcome to interview. I suppose I will set aside some time to speak with the Board about there being no qualified staff to teach Theory this year.”

Black dusted his hands off and made to stand, when Weasley sternly cut him off.

“We’re not finished yet, Headmaster Black. There are two more candidates to meet with today. Deek will show the next one in shortly.” 

Black grumbled, sitting back down.

The second applicant fared better, but all would agree that their true talent lay in kissing up to the Headmaster, who preened and peacocked from his seat at the head of the table. They were sent away with vague allusions to receiving an owl, either way.

Sharp, who had been comfortable through the course of both interviews, now felt a small twinge of nervousness spreading in the pit of his stomach. Weasley caught his eye from her place beside the headmaster, but he brushed her off. He was fine. This was not going to be a problem. It would be some other stranger, and he would remember this series of strange coincidences wryly while sipping at a firewhiskey some day in the near future. 

Still, the wait for Deek to return with the last applicant seemed to take ages, and he felt his mood grow more and more sour with every passing moment. 

Finally, one of the double doors pushed open. Sharp realized he’d been drumming his fingers, and stilled himself. 

‘Still not a problem’, he thought, though kept his gaze askance until the approach of measured footsteps ceased. Then, taking a breath, he looked up. 

The part of him that had been anticipating a shadow from his past was very much looking for a girl of just eleven, fixing him with some heart-rending expression and reaching up to tug at his overcoat near the pocket flap.

That was, of course, not what he saw. Instead of a grief-stricken child, a young, but grown woman smiled demurely at the panel from her space below their table. He realized he might not have recognized her at all, save for the fact that he would never forget those eyes.

There was no coincidence. After ten years, Fate had finally seen fit to bring him face to face with Jessamine Blunt again.

His hand closed over the watch in his pocket possessively.

“Miss Stoughton, lovely to meet you, I’m Matilda Weasley, Professor of Transfiguration and Assistant Headmistress here at Hogwarts. Allow me to introduce the other members of staff gathered here today.” 

Weasley went around the table, beginning with the headmaster and then providing names and positions for all the other professors. The applicant acknowledged them all with a polite “how do you do,” until they came to the final member of staff present.

“And, last but certainly not least, this is our esteemed Potions Professor, Aesop Sharp.”

Jessamine turned to look at him, her cordial affectation slipping. They stared at each other from across the room, and all his hopes toward not being recognized- ten years older, hair long, clothes more reserved and the scar on his face, angry and swollen when last they met, faded- were dashed. He saw the spark of recognition dance across her face, and her expression shifted into something inscrutable. He cleared his throat.

“Charmed.”

“Yes, I’m pleased to see you,” she murmured. 

If the rest of the table took notice of their strange exchange, they made no comment on it. Headmaster Black’s pages were flipping again.

“Miss…Stoughton, is it? You seem awfully young. I also don’t believe I’m acquainted with any of the Stoughtons. Are you married, by chance?”

Sharp tried to look uninterested in the response.

“May I ask the reason as to your inquiry, Headmaster Black?” 

The pretentious man sniffed, glowering.

“We prefer that spouses be accommodated elsewhere, and we would like to know your status in the event that you are selected for this position.”

Jessamine’s response was well calculated.

“It seems an odd question to lead with, Headmaster, unless you’re planning to offer me the job before asking if I know my accio from my elbow?”

He gave her a stern look. A few chuckles rippled across the table. The young witch continued. 

“To answer your question: no, I’m not married. My father’s name was Blunt. When he…when my mother remarried, she insisted that my stepfather adopt me.” 

She purposefully did not look at Sharp. He didn’t know if he should be ashamed or grateful.

The Headmaster sat back, oozing false sincerity.

“I’m afraid I don’t recognize that name, either. More’s the pity, I suppose.” 

Sharp, who had become invested in this exchange despite himself, saw Jessamine open her mouth and take a step forward. Professor Weasley quickly interrupted before she could speak.

“We were particularly impressed by your written application, Miss Stoughton, but we have some concerns and questions we would like to cover today. First, we’ll test your technical knowledge. To begin, can you explain Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration?”

The young woman nodded smartly. 

“Of course, Professor. Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration is the magiphysical truth governing the concepts of transfiguration, including conjuration.The law states that objects created from another object- the definition of pure transfiguration- will remain in their altered state for as long as that state is maintained. This means that transfigured objects are not inherently immune to damage, including that by fire, water, air, immense pressure, or any other manner of destruction or disrepair that may befall them. Additionally, transfigured objects are subject to the states that naturally befall an object originally in that state, unless otherwise charmed. A common example is thus: a pillow transfigured into a metal bucket will inherit all aspects of the metal bucket. It will remain in the state of the metal bucket ad infinitum , and will be susceptible to all damage or disrepair that may befall a metal bucket, including afflictions like rust or tarnish.

“Conjured objects are considered to be ‘pseudo-transfiguration,’ in the sense that conjured objects are a projection of the conjurer’s auric energies into a tangible creation. While physical and therefore usable for their intended purpose, these objects are impermanent and easily manipulated. They can be transmuted or destroyed far more easily than an otherwise transfigured object that uses physical building materials. As the energy used to create the object is not self-renewing, it will eventually dissipate, and the object will cease to exist.”

As Jessamine spoke, she began to pace across the floor, gesturing here and there to illustrate her point. She already had the countenance of a teacher, that much was clear. Sharp could see the-poorly masked-excitement spreading across Weasley’s face with every passing moment. 

“Splendid!” Weasley clasped her hands in delight when the candidate finished. 

Professor Hecat spoke up.

“Would you also be so kind as to run us through the exceptions to Gamp’s Law?”

“Certainly. Gamp initially acknowledges five exceptions, which outline that which cannot be conjured. The first is objectively good food. Real food must nourish an individual, both in the short term by fulfilling hunger and providing energy, and in the long-term, promoting good health. As a conjured object is not built from existing materials, it therefore has no properties of nourishment, and so while something similar to food in appearance, taste, and texture may be conjured, food with actual restorative and beneficial properties cannot be conjured.”

The young witch proceeded to outline four more exceptions with unabashed vigor, and alluded to some conjecture about a sixth exception being possible. Sharp was only half-listening, though he could tell from the faces of his colleagues she had not faltered yet. He was trying to reconcile the past with the present enough to detach and form an unbiased opinion of the applicant, rather than giving in to his inclination to continue pushing back against her candidacy. 

And on it went, the questions becoming increasingly harder and running the gamut from herbology to divination, charms to curses, and further still into pure conjecture. Genuine discourse began to take shape, with professors returning volley with counterpoints and questions. Sharp had to admit, the sheer breadth of her knowledge was impressive, and he wondered if she were homeschooled after all. He wondered how much theory her mother knew. How much her stepfather knew.

How much her father had time to teach her.

Professor Ronen spoke up.

“Miss Stoughton, your theory is impressive, but how well does it translate to your practical skills?”

For the first time, Sharp saw her falter. 

“Sir?” She questioned. Ronen elaborated.

“Students may need to see a demonstration from time to time,” and here he flicked his wand, producing a spray of colorful sparkles for effect, “in order to fully grasp what you’re discussing. Sometimes, it’s practical to handle the display yourself, rather than losing their attention between classes and relying on one of us to fill in the gaps.”

Onai jumped in before she could respond.

“We saw on your application that you did not attend a wizarding school. We would like to be sure that you can handle all that is necessary for this position.”

Jessamine blanched, seeming to resign herself to something.

“I am…less practiced…in the application of my knowledge than I’m sure would be preferred,  but I am willing to work towards improvement on my own time.” She finally replied.

“Can you elaborate a little more? How is it that your abilities are not in step with your studies?” Shah asked. The young witch before them drew herself up, standing tall against what was starting to look like a firing squad. 

“It is true that I did not attend any wizarding school. My father died just before I turned eleven. It had a…devastating effect on my mother, who decided to abandon witchcraft and wizardry altogether. She remarried to Mister Stoughton, my stepfather and a Muggle man, and forbade my practicing magic of any kind. I owe almost all of my knowledge to the last several years, during which I’ve dedicated myself to re-entering wizarding society a learned woman. As such, I wholly and readily admit my physical abilities are still well below par, especially for a position at Hogwarts.”

A murmur swept across through the staff members. Sharp watched Jessamine’s jaw clench against it. Her easy confidence had suddenly been replaced with a tiredness and unease that rivaled his own. She stepped closer to the table, and he could sense a sort of desperation setting in.

“I have been practicing with magic on my own since I re-entered wizarding society, and will continue to improve and learn more every day. It is my…it was my hope that being fully immersed in a place where learning is the norm might speed my progress.”

The guilt Sharp thought he’d buried long ago pounded in his veins, insidious and sickening. He tried to tamp it down, tried to temper it with gruff disaffection, but it pulsed at his core. He kept seeing the Briarfinch ablaze. Kept hearing the funerary wailing. Kept hearing a little girl ask him what happened that night, and being unable to answer. The cool metal of the watch hidden away on his person was hot and burning with the heat of his shame.

“Is that the only reason you’re interested in this position, Miss Stoughton?” Kogawa asked bluntly.

The young woman shook her head.

“Not at all. In fact, I feel that I have a lot to offer Hogwarts, being in the unique position to have been wholly immersed in theoretical studies for most of my life. It is my belief that my presence here could be…symbiotic, in a sense.”

The table continued to hold counsel amongst themselves. The headmaster was whisper-shouting about “muggles too close to magic” and a great deal more disparaging comments no one could keep him from spewing. The ex-auror watched the young witch absorb all of this in stony silence. His leg ached.

“Miss Stoughton,” Professor Weasley broke through the noise, and the room quieted instantly, “if you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”

“Twenty-one, Professor.”

“I see. As you may know, that is the minimum age to teach at Hogwarts. However, it was set with the expectation that our staff would graduate with high marks from a wizarding school, then further hone their abilities out in the world. All of us really do feel you would be an excellent fit for the position of Magical Theory-”and here the Headmaster moved to protest, not wanting to be included in that assessment, but no one paid him any heed- ”but events of late have shown us just how important it is to have our staff be fully prepared for any situation.”

Sharp was good at reading people. He could see the disappointment weighing down on the applicant, who was making an excellent show of waiting for whatever came next. 

He supposed this was, in some way, still his fault.

“Unfortunately, I just don’t think we can really offer you the position at this-”

“What about an assistant teaching position?” Sharp rose to his feet, speaking before he could stop himself.

Weasley ogled at him in surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“If we reassess our schedules, we have the manpower to cover Magical Theory amongst ourselves for the year. If we agree that there is no fault in the applicant’s technical knowledge, and they fulfill all other requirements except the practical, I believe we can consider a temporary apprenticeship, with the provision that the applicant further her skills. We can reconvene at an appropriate time to assess progress and determine whether or not the position becomes permanent.”

Mouths gaped at him. He assumed his most commanding stare, noting with some satisfaction the unique shade of purple the headmaster was turning.

“You will see me after this meeting in my office, Sharp! It seems we are not only looking for a Magical Theory professor anymore, ” he hissed. Sharp shrugged, sitting back down. He felt watched.

“Actually, Headmaster…it wouldn’t be much different from what happened last year with our fifth-year, would it?” Hecat commented thoughtfully. “The Ministry might actually find this situation advantageous. It simply doesn’t do to have unguided magic practiced just anywhere. That is one of the reasons why we have Traces on the children, after all.”

Professor Weasley looked at Sharp over the rim of her glasses. He challenged her gaze.

“Professor Sharp, this was perhaps better discussed privately. However, under the circumstances, it isn’t the worst solution. I assume you volunteer to take shifts in Theory. Is anyone else willing to help?”

Most everyone agreed. Weasley tapped her chin.

Throughout all of this, Jessamine had stood quietly, waiting for a verdict like a criminal at the gallows. Most of the time, she’d been following Sharp’s every movement. The incredulity still lingered on her face.

“Miss Stoughton…this is a highly unusual situation, and I feel we need to deliberate further. Are you staying nearby? I will send an owl with our decision once it is made.”

Jessamine nodded.

“Yes, I am lodging in Hogsmeade temporarily.”

“Excellent. Thank you very much for coming to us today and allowing us to ask you such personal questions. I will be in touch with you within three days, in either case. It’s been lovely to meet you.”

“The pleasure was all mine. Professors, Headmaster.” Jessamine offered them all a nod before turning on her heel, skirts swishing as she made for the door. It shut with an air of finality. Sharp let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He barely registered the reprimand from Black in his offer later that day. After rescuing his tenure, he tucked himself up in his room, cauldron sitting quiet for once. Instead, he alternated between staring off into space and sketching anything he could lay eyes on. It passed the time well enough until the message he knew was coming finally presented itself.

The halls echoed with his uneven footsteps as he let himself into Weasley’s office. She was rubbing her temples methodically. He seated himself.

“Are you going to tell me what that was all about, or do I have another mystery on my hands?” She grumbled.

“There is no reason not to trial the applicant.” He replied simply. Uncharacteristically aggravated, she glared at him.

“Self-sacrifice is not a trait of your house, Aesop. Nor have I ever known you to partake in it for no glaringly obvious reason.”

“You are a dear friend, Matilda,” he placated softly, “but some things are better left in the past.”

“Are they? Because they seem to be very much in the present. You assured me this would not be a problem, Aesop, but I’ve been in meetings with the Headmaster since your outburst, just trying to keep you in your classroom. I would be remiss if I said I didn’t feel like I deserved an explanation.”

The two lapsed into silence. A teacup was passed to Sharp wordlessly, and he took a long sip. He did not offer anything further. Weasley frowned at him. 

“Well, you’ll be happy to know we’ve decided to accept your solution.”

He looked up. Weasley raised a finger.

“But, there is a stipulation to which you need to agree, and that is why I am so hesitant to proceed.”

He took another sip.

“You want me to oversee her progress.” 

Weasley nodded.

“I can think of no one better. The rest of us will invite Miss Stoughton to audit our classes in turn, and you will ensure her performance is satisfactory. Headmaster Black is adamant that poor return on this investment will see a new Potions professor by next school year, but don’t worry about that just yet. I’ve always been confident in your decisions, Aesop. I trust you’d tell me now if you have any reason to think this is not the right one to make.”

Sharp stood. 

“Send the owl. I’ll see her in my office on her arrival.”

Weasley was already sealing the envelope as he spoke.

Chapter Text

Jessamine was troubled. She had never quite fit in with either wizards or Muggles, and lately, there seemed to be a vast ocean between where she was and where she needed to be. As such, the letter that waited for her when she eventually returned to her lodgings in Hogsmeade felt like the validation she’d been waiting for. It also felt like the perfect respite in her hour of need.

It was all coming together so smoothly, she wondered how anything could go wrong. 

A week later, the Hogwarts doors opened for her again. She was greeted and showed to her chambers, setting her very modest single (and unenchanted) travel case at the foot of her bed before being whisked away by Professor Weasley to become acquainted with the castle. It felt like they walked for miles, and Jessamine wondered how students were ever expected to get to class, let alone on time. 

As they journeyed through the castle, Weasley pointed out this artifact or that portrait. The younger witch’s head spun with everything she worked to absorb.

The first hint of trouble came when Weasley led Jessamine into her office as they trundled by. 

“Before we continue,” she started when they were both comfortably seated, “I wanted to ask about your relationship to Professor Sharp. You two seem to know each other, is that right?”

Jessamine was careful with her response.

“He was a friend of my father’s, many years ago. I thought I recognized him during my interview, but we are not personally acquainted as yet.”

The assistant headmistress nodded sagely, as if something had just clicked into place.

“I was hoping it was something like that. It’s been some time since Aesop– Professor Sharp– came to us, and it’s very rare for him to react as he did that day. As we have asked him to oversee your progress, I wanted to be sure there were no conflicts of interest, as it were.”

Jessamine waved her hand and reassured her that there was nothing to worry about. Still, a voice in the back of her head started to scream that there definitely was something to worry about–just not anything Professor Weasley was thinking.

At the end of it all, Weasley deposited her at the Potions classroom door with her instructions, then hurried off, leaving the young witch tired, overwhelmed, and suddenly filled with trepidation.

Even amongst all Hogwarts’ enchantments and the ambient August heat, the dungeons were chilly and damp. Jessamine rubbed her arms, the distinct feeling of being observed stronger here than in front of all the enchanted portraits she’d seen. Many of her mother’s nasty words echoed around in her head, and she worried the inside of her cheek between her teeth. 

There was something about the whole affair, knowing that he had saved her interview but also that he would ultimately decide whether she stayed or went that made her feel like a lamb being led to slaughter. As such, she tarried in the entryway, pacing a bit and shaking herself out to try to loosen her tenterhook nerves. It didn’t work.

“Lurking in the hallway is not an endearing practice, Miss Stoughton. Come in,” a gravelly voice intoned right next to her ear, and she startled, surprised to look around and find no one behind her.

Jessamine stepped into the large, clammy classroom. As with all the other classrooms she’d toured, she marveled at everything she laid eyes upon, the sheer magnitude of the academia before her overwhelming. She examined the closest potions station, careful not to touch without permission, then drifted over to the shelves filled with student-safe ingredients. She had her nose practically pressed to the glass of a cylinder filled with spiny seed pods, when a door to her left swung open. She leaned over and peeked in to see Sharp surrounded by books, papers, and even more bizarre and unfamiliar ingredients. He was holding a small bottle filled with a glittering blue liquid to his face, squinting at the contents and taking quick notes in a thick leather-bound book.

“Good morning, Professor Sharp.” Jessamine stepped inside fully, the door closing behind her. “And let me just say how grateful I am that you-”

“Stop,” he held up a hand without looking up. “Let us consider the matter settled. I trust Professor Weasley provided you with an overview of Hogwarts, but there is much more to cover. However, I know you came here with questions. Ask them.”

Hackles immediately raised by his perfunctory attitude, Jessamine took a moment to study the man before her. She supposed what was on the package was very much descriptive of its contents. Sharp looked as calculating, as gruff, as no-nonsense as they came. ‘ The picture of the perfect Auror, ’ she thought, and not for the first time, wondered why he was at Hogwarts, of all places. She didn’t realize she was staring until Sharp’s mirthless gaze flicked up, brow knitting together in annoyance.

“Miss Stoughton.” A warning. She demurred, eyelashes brushing against her cheek.

“It’s Blunt again, actually. I filed for the name change last week. It seemed more…appropriate.”

“Hm.” Was all he replied. 

“You are the same Sharp that worked with my father, then.”

He flinched even though he knew it was coming. Thankfully, his visitor had turned to inspect a precarious stack of common rat skulls, and it went unnoticed. The light from the stained glass window behind them splashed dancing, dripping patterns across her pinstripe jacket.

“Yes, but you knew that already.”

“I did.”

They lapsed into a tenuous silence. Jessamine drifted across the small open bits of floor, careful to hold her skirts away from the lit candles strewn about. She busied herself with looking at the contents of an open scroll on the edge of the stately wooden desk, her finger trailing lightly down the parchment. The potions professor waited. 

“I used to remember him so clearly, but it all feels quite fuzzy now. like a dream. Tell me about him, please. What was it like to work with him?”

Sharp leaned back in his chair and rolled his shoulders.

“Alfred was…he was a proud man. A good man. He was one of the best Aurors the Office ever had. Everyone looked up to him. It was an honor to serve as his partner.”

Jessamine huffed out a breath, irritated with his canned response. 

“Forgive me, Professor Sharp, but I was hoping for something a little less…well, a little less like a funerary speech. I’ve heard enough of those to last a lifetime.”

There was a spark of ire growing between them, bolstering into an inferno before it could be extinguished. 

“Miss Blunt, you will find that any…speeches…I am prone to giving are entirely utilitarian. Any further information I could offer you would not be likely to provide the comfort and consolation you appear to be seeking. Now, if there’s nothing else, there is much to discuss about your situation.”

Sharp could tell there was something else she wanted to say, something that had almost bubbled to the surface the day of the interview when their eyes met, were meeting now, but she waited attentively for him to continue. 

“As Professor Weasley has no doubt informed you, you are here in the capacity of Assistant Professor for one school year. Your tenure is contingent upon increasing your physical proficiency with spells, charms, and potions, which will be assessed at the end of the school year and will lead to our ultimate decision about your permanence.

“I shall act in the capacity of your mentor. You will report to me at mutually agreeable times before, between, and after class to practice and receive critique on your technique and abilities. I will decide what you are ready to learn, and when you are ready to learn it. You will be treated in the same manner that I treat students, which is with the expectation that they practice their craft with focus, determination, and care. I make no exceptions. Have I made myself clear, Miss Blunt?”

Jessamine nodded.

“Yes, Professor.”

“Very good. Now, please tell me of your current capabilities, so that we might have a baseline to start at.” 

Sharp leaned back again, expecting to hear of all that the young woman had accomplished in her fervor to become proficient in witchcraft.

Instead, the young woman suddenly appeared sheepish.

“Well, there’s…there’s not much to tell, actually. Theoretically I could brew a handful of potions right now, but I haven’t had the opportunity to try them out before. In terms of wandwork, I have practiced Lumos -that was the first charm I learned-and some basic defenses. As I mentioned, I’m also somewhat skilled with Accio , and improving regularly.”

Jessamine paused. She could tell by Sharp’s expression that this was not what he wanted to hear. If she was any judge, then he was actively regretting some of his recent decisions. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and she felt the tips of her ears flare hot with embarrassment and agitation.

“Miss Blunt…are you saying you have all the functional skill of a first-year student, and we are expected to get you to at least N.E.W.T.-level proficiency in a single school year, while we both attend to our other duties?”

Jessamine frowned at him, hands itching to land on her hips. Instead, she twined her fingers together behind her back.

“Pardon my boldness, but you say that as though you expect me to apologize. As I recall, that was exactly the premise of the conversation that has landed me in your office today.”

“That may be so, but I never imagined your situation to be so dire as all this. The explanation of your skills that you provided during the interview was sorely inflated. Had I known, I never would have recommended this course of action. You would do well to be forthcoming with such important information in the future, especially in a professional setting. Your misdirection was childish, at best.”

Sharp heaved a heavy sigh and stood, thinking the matter settled, but the young witch did not back down.

“Well then, I think you’ll find that any further information I could offer you would not be likely to provide the comfort and consolation you appear to be seeking,” she replied imperiously.

Jessamine knew she was making a fool of herself. It was a terrible and childish habit, especially when she knew he was right, but it was one she found herself unable to break from when under duress. She was wrapped up in a maelstrom of emotions running the gamut from anxiety to elation, and the past kept crashing into her present with alarming regularity. Everything felt strange and surreal. The tension she’d created was hanging thickly in the air between them, and she waited for the Damocles sword above her head to drop.

Instead, Sharp gave a precise tug to the bottom of his waistcoat, straightening it, and stepped around his desk. 

The witch sucked in a breath, suddenly wanting to look away. So that was why he was teaching at Hogwarts. Briefly, her mind flashed back to the cane he’d sported at her father’s funeral, and she wondered at whether his limp was caused by the same injury he’d had back then. A chagrined blush rose in her cheeks, and then he was standing at her shoulder, speaking through gritted teeth.

“Miss Blunt, do not make a habit out of testing my patience. I do not suffer flights of fancy built up around what the world does and does not owe a person. I can assure you that regardless of how entitled you think you are to something, it will take much more from you than it gives, especially if you continue to assert your aggrandized sense of self-importance with no skills to back up your brashness. Any chance you have at a future here or elsewhere in the wizarding world currently hinges on your own acceptance of your limitations, and your willingness to accept criticism and mentorship where it is due. I expect you to do better. Now come. There is clearly much to be done.”

With that, he threw the door to his office open and stalked out, leaving Jessamine to trail after him, quiet in her well-deserved chastisement.

Sharp led her from the classroom and out of the dungeons entirely. Up they climbed, and then they headed for the greenhouses. They did not speak until they had left the interior of Hogwarts completely, and were standing on a patch of lawn in the courtyard dappled with low white flowers. The warm air felt light and crisp, compared to the stale atmosphere of the Potions room. Jessamine arranged herself so she stood facing the ex-auror from several feet away.

“You will demonstrate all the wandwork that you know, and talk through what you have been working on. Begin.”

He left no room for argument. Jessamine reached into her skirt pocket, producing her wand from inside the voluminous pleat. She quickly ran through her paces, working through the spells and charms she could perform with ease, and talking him through others that weren’t coming so easily. He watched in silence, his stiff posture screaming that he’d rather be anywhere but there. 

Her finished performance met dead air. An awkward sensation began to prickle Jessamine’s neck after a moment, and she began to fidget.

“Well, Professor?”

“I’m not sure where to even begin,” he said, rocking his weight to his right foot.

Jessamine bit her lip.

“I know it’s not good, but-”

“‘Not good’ is a gross overstatement, Miss Blunt. As expected, your abilities are abysmal.” 

The witch could feel her agitation rising again and forced herself to settle down. He was right. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs as much as she could before exhaling slowly.

“It couldn’t be helped,” she retorted. 

“True enough,” Sharp inclined his head.”Seeing as you’ve a head stuffed full of theory, let’s see you put it to good use. Tell me the basic principle of levitation.”

“Magical energy is focused on the physical plane beneath an object, lifting the object into the air.”

Sharp drew his wand from inside his frock coat. He drew elegantly in the air, and a small object appeared. It dropped lightly into his hand. He tossed it into the grass, where it expanded until Jessamine was staring at a wooden ball slightly larger than a coconut. Sharp swished again, and the ball ascended until it was hovering waist-high. He released it after a moment, and returned to repose.

“You will begin with Levioso . Keep the ball airborne for a minimum of five seconds. Proceed.”

Jessamine’s nose scrunched as she concentrated, trying to mirror the same movements as her mentor. She felt clunky and out-of-sorts. Disdain was written across Sharp’s features, and he raised a brow at her.

“ Levioso .” 

She cast her spell. The ball wriggled in its place, but did not levitate.

“Again,” he commanded.

The witch took on a pose as though she was preparing to run an enemy through. She made wide-sweeping, imprecise movements.

The ball jumped in place, but still did not ascend. She looked at Sharp for guidance.

“Some time this century, Miss Blunt,” was all he offered.

Frustrated, on display, and put-on-the-spot, Jessamine stabbed at the air.

“ Levioso !” She cried.

The ball levitated. It hovered for a second before shooting off in Sharp’s direction. 

He stopped it cold just inches from his face.

Jessamine felt all the air rush out of her lungs in a gasp as the mortification sunk in. She covered her mouth with her free hand. The ball dropped into Sharp’s outstretched hand again, and as he pocketed it, it seemed to shrink into nothing.

“Professor Sharp, I-”

“We’re done here,” he hissed, starting for the entrance at a shockingly fast clip.

Jessamine paled, gathering her skirts up so she could hurry after him.

“Wait. Just wait a minute, please? It was an accident, I swear. I’m sorry, Professor. Will you wait just a second?”

“Why, so you can throw something else at me under the guise of academia?” 

He threw open a small side door tucked away between two well-manicured bushes. Jessamine ran to hold it open for herself before he could slam it in her face. 

“What is wrong with you? It was an accident!”

“Are you entirely sure of that, Miss Blunt? Because I seem to recall you mentioning that Levioso needs both focus and intent just before launching a very aggravated assault.”

He made it to the dungeon stairs in record time, but Jessamine remained doggedly on his heels.

“Would you just– look. Witches and wizards from all over Britain, all over the world, even, dream of teaching here. Do you seriously believe I’m stupid enough to purposefully throw away this chance? To ruin the opportunity that you personally handed to me? Why would I even do that?”

She gasped, as though just figuring something out.

“You don’t think I came here with some half-baked revenge scheme, do you? Because I assure you, that is not on my to-do list.”

Sharp did not pause in his descent, but he did slow down slightly.

“I handed you nothing, and I could only guess at your reasons for coming here.” Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls that rose up around them. Each one felt like another grain of sand in Jessamine’s hourglass shifting to the bottom.

“I can’t figure you out,” she moaned. ”One day you stand up for me, but the very next time we meet, you’re ready to turn me out. Do you treat your students like this?”

“You were the only applicant with half a brain, Miss Blunt, but said half seems to have leaked out of your ears in the brief time since your interview. And I suggest you concern yourself with figuring out your next career move, rather than worrying about my students.”     

They reached the dungeon classroom door, and Jessamine all but threw herself in front of it, red-faced and wild-eyed. Sharp glared at her, but made no move to pass her by.

“Please, just– just wait,” she panted. ”I’m sorry. That was…it was absolutely an accident, I promise. I can do better. I will do better. Just don’t…don’t make me leave. I need help.”

Shivering under his icy regard, Jessamine implored him with her best doe eyes.

“Please, Professor?”

After a tense moment, the cold of the classroom door seeping into her back, Sharp huffed.

“Focus on controlling your movements. The best way I’ve heard it described is to swish. Practice with a less…aggressive object, on your own and out of the way. A piece of paper or a feather would be my recommendation.” 

If the lamps hadn’t been lit, Jessamine’s ear-to-ear smile could have brightened the corridor on its own.

“Thank you, thank you! I will endeavor to do just that.”

“See that you do. Now, if you don’t mind?” he gestured toward the door, all his weight on his right leg.

“Oh, yes, of course,” she murmured, sliding off to the side. Sharp limped by her. Jessamine followed, babbling in her relief.

“You have no idea how much this all means to me. I really am sorry, by the way, for everything today. I think you and I have just gotten off on the wrong foot.”

Sharp was already slamming his office door, glass jars tinkling against each other with the force, when Jessamine realized her slip of the tongue. She winced, cursing under her breath and turning away from the door with her face buried in her hands. 

“Excellent, yes, great job Jessa, you really know how to knock out a spectacular first day on the job,” she muttered to herself, retreating into the corridor and heading for the stairs.

She really needed to be anywhere but the dungeons just then.

Later, in her chambers, Jessamine sat at the small writing desk with her chin propped against her fist, her wand moving slowly through the air. She had been practicing the motion that comprised Levioso for an hour, trying to keep her mind clear of any distractions. 

Bored of practice with no payoff, she pulled a small envelope from her bag and set it on the desk. Jessamine lifted her wand, then paused.

She removed the contents of the envelope and set them to the side, out of harm’s way.

“Here goes nothing,” she said to herself, and gently pulled her wand through the air, mimicking Sharp’s well-rehearsed movements that morning.

The envelope levitated at eye level with ease. Jessamine sighed in relief, and lowered it back to the desk. She repeated the charm several times, each result the same. A satisfied grin graced her lips. 

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Jessamine slipped over, opening it and surprised to find no one there.

“Ahem, down here,” a voice said.

She looked down, and a house-elf waved up at her.

“Oh, hello, sorry about that. Still getting used to things around here.”

“No trouble at all. A message for you, miss.” The elf passed the neatly folded paper up to her and turned to leave.

“Thank you very much,” Jessamine murmured as she shut the door. 

She unfolded the paper to reveal a strong, neat script.

My office, 9 o’clock. – A.S.

Jessamine looked down at the letter, unimpressed.

“Guess I shouldn’t have expected a more interesting way of relaying messages, even if it is Hogwarts,” she said to herself.

As if on cue, the letter spoke back.

“You should be pleased he sent the invitation at all, miss.”

With that, it crumpled itself into a ball and poofed into nothingness, leaving Jessamine to glance at the letter on her desk. It remained where it was.

She wished it would explode as well.

Chapter Text

They had a week together between Jessamine’s calamitous first day and the arrival of students.

It wasn’t enough time. 

It was also far, far too much.

By Wednesday, Sharp had developed a fairly constant headache that felt like someone pressing their fingers into his temples as hard as they could. No potion or painkilling spell seemed to quell it for long. It was only fairly constant because of the few blissful hours he had to himself in the afternoons. Otherwise, he would have admitted himself to the hospital and stayed there until she found another mentor or left altogether.  

Every morning began much the same for him since her arrival. Typically, whether he was in his chambers at Hogwarts or tucked away in his personal cottage, he made his way up and out of bed as soon as his daily alarm sounded. But for the better part of a week, he found himself blinking bleary-eyed up at the high stone ceiling, wondering why he had to go and open his mouth and introduce this blight upon magic into his life. 

Once he finished wallowing, Sharp’s morning routine would commence as usual, and he’d eventually make his way down to the faculty dining hall for breakfast. He had adopted the practice of coffee over tea early on in his Auror career, and it was one ritual that he hadn’t left behind. The remainder of the staff chummed and chatted over their victuals, but they knew better than to disturb Sharp until he’d finished at least once cup of that sanctified black gold, two if the weather was bad. 

He knew he came off as a grump before being caffeinated, and had never tried to dissuade anyone of that opinion, given that it wasn’t wholly inaccurate. Jessamine, however, was an entirely different person in the morning. He had been worried she would burst in the door, far too chipper for his tastes, and would make it a point to slide in next to him and chatter away in his ear while indulging in the most flimsy smokeshow of a meal that she could concoct, in the same fashion as the most of the rest of her sex.

Instead, she all but dragged herself into the room, offering a tired-looking wave to everyone before plopping down as far away from him as possible and reaching for the second carafe (which was new, and had not escaped his attention) that had been set at the other end of the table. She poured her cup and downed it straight in one long swig, immediately refilling the mug and fumbling with the cream and sugar for a more palatable experience. The only answers she gave to polite conversation-in fact, the only ones she seemed capable of giving-were a staccato chorus of “mmhmms” and “uh-uhs.” Eventually, she was left to her own devices as she reached repeatedly for serving ladles and forks, piling her plate full with toast, beans, fried mushrooms and sausage, while Sharp engrossed himself in his own meal and the morning paper.

Even so, he found himself idly wondering where she had picked up the coffee habit. It was unusual compared to his compatriots, and a practice almost never seen in the women he’d been acquainted with over the years. 

He forced his mind not to dwell as he turned the page and made note of the dueling outcomes of the night before, watching the replay of the prizefight dance across the page with rapt attention.

Breakfast left him with just a quarter of an hour to himself before their first meeting of the day. He made it a point to leave the dining hall before his charge had revived into something more human, and slipped down to the dungeons unbothered, lost to his own musings as comfortable warmth gradually transformed into the bone-deep damp he tried valiantly to ignore.

By the time nine o’clock rolled around, he’d just be settling in when footsteps would echo in the corridor outside his classroom. The pressure in his head would increase with every clicking heelstrike before she ever made an appearance, contorting his expression into a defensive grimace.

And then he would put her to work practicing what they had worked on the day before. He ran her through her skills over and over again until he was satisfied that his instructions had stuck. Even so, her abilities improved at an almost imperceptible pace. They were still strengthening her Levioso so it was functional across a variety of situations. Although she’d not shown enough progression to reasonably propel her forward, she made it clear that she was unsatisfied with his decision to hold her back, and the tension between them would kindle and flare until they were arguing so loud the portraits ducked for cover. Then the clock would chime, signaling the end of their first meeting, and she would flounce out, only to return that evening for another round of practice. 

Amongst the many mysteries she presented to him (ones he didn’t ask for and didn’t care to solve), he couldn’t stem his curiosity about a singular concern. A week was hardly enough time to prove a habit, but to that point, Jessamine had been nothing but punctual for their early meetings. However, she was almost perpetually late to their evening forum, skidding in the door with her hair falling from its pins and trying to catch her breath as though she’d just run clear across Scotland to reach him.

She assured him each time that she’d been out exploring the surrounding valley and regrettably lost track of time, but he couldn’t miss the unmistakable tang of coal smoke that mingled with her perfume as she drifted by, something he only ever encountered in rail stations and in cities. Nevertheless, he accepted her excuses, wanting nothing more than to steer clear of her business.

Then they would continue where they left off, but invariably, the young witch would be in worse form than the morning. Sharp tried to impress upon her that while she was free to do as she pleased outside of her duties, distraction to the point of disability was only going to slow her down further. She attempted to placate him with murmurs of “yes, of course, Professor,” but then her gaze would slide off to some fixed point on the wall, and he’d be talking to thin air again, leading to her dismissal for the evening.

Rinse and repeat. Sharp noted that his beard seemed to include a few more grays by mid-week, and as he examined himself in the mirror, mused that perhaps he still wasn’t too old to change careers again.

It couldn’t hurt to try.

Thursday morning started much the same as every other morning that week. At the prescribed time, the witch peeked in, as though not at all certain she would find him at his post. He’d taken up residence at the table he used when he held class, fearing for the safety of the more volatile ingredients locked away in his office pantry. 

“Good morning, Professor Sharp,” she said when she spotted him across the room, and he waved her in before rising to follow her to the far side of the room.

The brewing station at the end of the L-shaped room had been pushed out of the way for the duration of their practice. In fact, he’d tried to have Jessamine move the potions station, but had to quickly arrest its movement when it almost careened into the wall. She’d given him an apologetic look, shoulders hunched to her ears in embarrassment, and he’d simply suspired and muttered that they’d return to Depulso at a later date. 

Truth be told, he’d never encountered anyone more stupendously bad at magic than Alfred Blunt’s daughter. He found himself staring at her from time to time, trying to see if there was any family resemblance or if he’d been tricked by some nefarious imposter. 

But he wasn’t so lucky. He could see it in the way she set her jaw sometimes when he had no choice but to tear her attempts apart with criticism and critique. It was obvious in the way she tapped her foot when she grew agitated, and in the way she chewed on the useless end of pencils when she scribbled about form and function in a small notebook she kept hidden in her skirt pockets. 

He also knew first-hand what a Blunt’s temper was like, and she had definitely inherited hers from her father.

Still, he had to give her credit for sheer force of will when she was focused. They were working on levitating larger and larger objects, his own wand drawn and at the ready– “just in case,” he assured her. He had her playing with some of his classroom cauldrons, and it was going well until the largest gave her some trouble, wobbling about as she tightened her grip on her wand. Sharp had seen enough by that point, and gently lowered her wand with the side of his. She’d looked at him then, clearly wary and poised for a fight, but as the cauldron settled itself back on its feet, he’d simply taken a step back and cleared his throat.

“You’re improving,” he offered.

Wide, distrustful green eyes softened into something calmer, warmer. 

“Of course, I’ve seen first-years with better control. You still have a very long way to go, and that’s just on Levioso alone.”

Those same eyes rolled so far back into the witch’s head that Sharp wondered if she could see the inside of her skull.

“You’re not capable of just giving a compliment, are you?” She asked in a groan.

In response, he folded his arms with an air of imperiousness.

“I am capable, Miss Blunt, but I give them out only to those deserving of praise. Perhaps when simple cauldrons don’t threaten to crash into and crack the floor, you too will have earned one.”

She shot him a look, but said nothing. 

“That’s enough of that charm for today.” 

Her face transformed then, a look of relief and excitement blooming across her pert features.

“We will move on for now to the more modern version of Levioso , which you will know as Wingardium Leviosa .”

Sharp had to admit, after their numerous disagreements, there was something intensely satisfying about the way she crumpled inward with youthful petulance and disappointment. He pushed off from the lean he’d adopted against the wall, and took up his casting stance at a respectful distance away from her. 

“I trust you know the principle?”

“Yes, Professor,” she responded with a nod.

“Then I implore you to be careful, Miss Blunt. We don’t want a repeat of last time.”

Leaving it at that, he demonstrated the charm on the same cauldron from before.

“You will begin with something a little less…dangerous, of course,” he said, setting the iron pot back down and looking at her pointedly.

“I don’t know how many times I can apologize. It was first-day nerves, I assure you.” Jessamine tried to mollify him, wand drifting towards the cauldron and the tip of her tongue peeping from between her lips in concentration, but he snapped it up and moved it safely to the other side of the room before she could react.

“You can assure me further by doing as I say and starting with this.”

He conjured an object directly into her hand, outstretched in response to his words.

“It’s a feather,” she said flatly. 

“Astute observation. It’s traditional for students to begin with one.”

She twirled the feather between her fingers and smiled up at him, coyly brushing the soft fronds to her cheek.

“Honestly, Professor Sharp, I think we’d get through this a bit quicker-and I’d be out of your hair faster-if you’d stop treating me like a know-nothing child, don’t you?”

Sharp was not swayed by batting lashes this time. 

“I’ll stop treating you like a know-nothing child when you stop acting like one, Miss Blunt. Now either try the charm on the feather or leave. It’s up to you.”

Jessamine sighed, defeated, but she placed the feather on the brewing station and took one big step back. Her wand swirled through the air above the feather, and she began to whisper the charm as she worked.

As he half-expected, the feather didn’t budge. Seconds ticked over into minutes, and with every failure, Jessamine’s frustration grew. Sharp checked his watch, shaking his head slowly. The witch’s mouth twisted into a grimace.

“Any insight, Professor?”

“It’s virtually the same charm as Levioso , Miss Blunt. This should not be so difficult.”

“Yes, thank you, that was absolutely the most helpful thing you could have said.” She huffed, staring daggers at the feather.

Sharp gestured toward her wand.

“Perhaps if you tried actually following the correct motion, rather than simply faffing about with no care or application, you would make progress,” he sniped.

“Oh, what a novel idea! How unfortunate that I didn’t think of doing this correctly.” 

Just the same, she swished with more care. Sharp knew he should have kept his mouth shut, let her continue on with her practice now that she seemed to be closer to succeeding, but the attitude being constantly thrown in his direction had his patience wearing thin.

“Yes, quite novel, the concept of you getting something correct at all.” 

Jessamine abruptly stopped swishing and turned on her heel to face him, wand still aloft.

“Oh, well forgive me if my bumbling has stained your stellar teaching record, your excellency! I regret to be the first student to ever make a mistake under your flawless instruction. I’ll be sure to grovel for my careless disregard of your needs when I’m finished for the day!” Her voice pitched higher as she grew more irate.

Sharp pressed forward into her space, seething.

“That is enough , Miss Blunt,” he growled, expecting their fight to come to a close, but Jessamine crowded him until he was forced to glare down his nose at her.

“No, it really isn’t enough, I’ve barely just begun! You’ve been upset with me since the moment I arrived, and you don’t even try to hide it. We don’t even know each other, so I have no idea why I am such a problem to you. And yet somehow you want me to exceed your expectations at every turn? How is that fair?!”

Sharp hadn’t raised his voice in anger for some time, but he didn’t bother holding back now.

“I set my expectations high because you claimed to be an expert in theory, and as such, it follows that you could apply what you know to the real world. Instead, I’ve been saddled with babysitting a liar with a penchant for magical disaster and histrionic outbursts! And you say you want something more difficult than a feather? I’ll consider us both lucky if you can get past controlling a bloody dust mite!”

Jessamine stomped her foot, enraged. A few strands of hair escaped her hair pins and fell down around her shoulders. 

“How dare you, you…you…!” She took a deep breath in, and the rest came out in a yell. “Do you even have any clue as to how hard I am trying? How badly I need help? Of course not, you couldn’t give a rat’s ass. Otherwise, you wouldn’t stand here like an ogre, shaking your head, checking your watch, and reminding me of how stupid I am while all I’m trying to do is Wingardium Leviosa your stupid feather!!”

Jessamine paused, panting, but the riposte she expected never came. Sharp’s eyes slid sideways, the taut muscles in his jaw slackening just a bit. She followed his gaze down her arm and over the tip of her wand.

The feather floated delicately in the air, bobbing in the slight draft that always ran through the potions classroom.

Both wizard and witch blinked at it, dumbstruck. 

Rage momentarily ashed over, Jessamine moved her wand slowly from side to side. The feather followed. Up and down, and still it obeyed.

Sharp looked back at the young witch, and found her lower lip quivering. He sighed, backing out of her personal bubble and putting a respectable distance between them both.

“Miss Blunt, I–”

She stormed past him. The feather hit him lightly in the chest as she pushed by, and he pressed his hand to it before it could fall to the floor. 

“I won’t bother you again. Good day, Professor Sharp,” she muttered, words thick in her throat.

He let her go.

Sharp stood in the middle of his classroom, a strange feeling of wrongness worming through his gut while he watched her hurry away. There was a lot to unpack from the last few moments of his life, but an alarm seemed to raise in his brain.

For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why.

She didn’t arrive for their evening meeting, and he hadn’t really expected her to. Still, Sharp sat in his chair at the table for the duration of their appointment, surreptitiously looking at the door and waiting for the perpetually harried witch to throw it open, honeyed explanations dripping from her tongue.

Distracting himself with work and research hadn’t helped him escape the ramifications of their squabble. The only other time in recent memory that made him feel so terrible about himself was the incident with Fig. After the dust had settled, he spent days on end considering how things might have been different if he’d just listened the first time, and mentally added another body to the list of those his arrogance had cost him. 

Sharp fully expected a visit from Weasley or even Headmaster Black, but as day tipped over into dusk and purple skies faded to black, none came. The near-perfect silence of the dungeons only served to chastise him further. Wherever Jessamine was and whatever she was doing, she hadn’t thought to complain about his conduct as yet, and he couldn’t fathom why. He was well aware he’d fanned the flames and had every reason to face repercussions, and he was considering reporting himself if she decided not to.

He’d spent the duration of their missed meeting growing more and more ill at ease, and it showed in his inability to make any headway on his latest attempt at a cure. It wasn’t in his nature to apologize for every little thing, but he knew it was well warranted this time. 

He had reservations about seeking her out, however. A quick spell had already told him she wasn’t inside the castle proper, and he didn’t know her habits and haunts enough to decide where else she might have gone off to. On top of that, there was the added complication of seeking out a younger female colleague in the late evening when his company was most certainly not going to be appreciated, even for a genuine attempt at amends.

And then there was the little voice crowing away inside his mind that he should be pleased he’d run her off, and good riddance too. Not only would he no longer need to mentor her, she would no longer serve as a monument to his deep well of guilt. 

Her own inability and attitude had cost her the job, he’d say. And then he would pat himself on the back for trying and move on with his life, unbothered by his ghosts forevermore.

It was perfect. It was fortuitous. 

It was downright horrible and he hated himself for even considering it. 

Sharp raked a hand through his hair and stood, disgusted with himself. Pins and needles rasped through his leg like the uncomfortable crackle of foreboding just before a lightning strike. He closed his books and tucked his papers away before heading for the door, suddenly single-minded in his purpose.

Now seemed as good a time as any to get drunk.

It took him a fair few minutes to make it out past Hogwarts’ main gate, and by the time he made it there, he was even more aggrieved and sure that a solid night of drinking was just what he needed. Once outside, he saved himself the trouble of lumbering up the path and apparated to the front doors of the pub. He could hear the activity inside The Three Broomsticks before he ever went inside, and he hesitated, hand on the door, before pulling himself together and pushing through.

A quick scan of the main seating revealed that his nemesis did not await him. Sharp let out the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

Sirona noticed him just then, brow raising as if to ask why he was still just haunting the doorway instead of settling in. Shaking off some of his trepidation, Sharp made his way over to where the bartender dried multiple glasses at once in mid-air.

“I’ll make the usual a double tonight, then?”

He nodded, sinking onto the last empty stool in the row and slumping forward over the bar.

“Am I that obvious?”

The proprietress plucked a glass from the floating lineup and started filling it with amber liquor.

“Like a beacon in the night, Aesop.” Sirona paused, seeming to think, then shrugged. “Well, that and the fact that I heard all about your little quibble with the latest addition to your ranks.”

Sharp groaned, unable to escape his troubles even in Hogsmeade. 

“So you’ve met her, then.”

“Oh yeah. Lovely girl, I think. Headstrong and just a bit naive, but lovely. I’m surprised the two of you don’t get along better, frankly.” 

He huffed, blowing a lock of his hair out of his face.

“I think the concept of ‘getting along’ might be foreign to Miss Blunt.” 

A double whisky slid to a graceful stop in front of him, and he drank half of it down before he could stop himself. The burn filled his senses, pushing all other thoughts and feelings to the side until it subsided. Sirona left the bottle of Campbell’s just within reach while she busied herself with other orders.

“Seems to be a skill you could work on, as well,” she offered over the din.

They let their conversation rest until the patrons that had closed in around him drifted away to the pub’s dull wooden tables and well-worn armchairs.

He was three doubles in and pleasantly dizzy when Sirona parked herself up against the bar from the other side, drawing his attention.

“You find your apology in the bottom of that glass yet?” She asked, gesturing at it with her dish towel.

“Maybe,” was all he replied, finishing the last of his drink and pushing the glass toward her. 

Sirona took the glass, but to his displeasure, placed it in a pan of water for cleaning.

“I’m cutting you off, Aesop. You’ll apparate right into a wall at this rate, and I know you aren’t walking all the way back.”

He grumbled, but she shushed him with a light pat to the back of one hand.

“A word of advice: do try to make things right with the girl, but maybe wait until you aren’t able to light a candle just by blowing on it, hm?”

Much more relaxed than when he arrived, he offered her an easy, lopsided grin.

“Fair enough. Thank you, Sirona,” he said as he paid his tab.

“Any time. Be careful getting back, Aesop.”

He nodded and carefully slid off the stool, testing his weight on his bad leg before letting go of the bar top completely. Satisfied he could comport himself with some amount of dignity, he ambled back out into the half-moon night.

The air was cooler than it had been when he arrived, and it cleared his fuzzy mind just enough for the quaint atmosphere of Hogsmeade at night to permeate his senses. He was limber enough from the alcohol to stroll for a short distance, so he picked his way across the cobblestone, enjoying the freedom of drunken-slightly-reckless-mobility. 

Hogsmeade was fairly quiet at night, but never silent. There was always someone out doing something based on the phases of the moon, or the weather, or just because they wanted to. He could hear the strains of some plaintive music from one side of the street, and laughter drifted lazily from an open window. If he strained, he could make out the footsteps of passerby in the distance. 

And then there was the average noise of the world. Grass waving, brush squeaking against itself, streams burbling, and all manner of creatures milling about. All of these sounds were familiar, as much a part of the village as magic was.

As such, it took a few moments to register a different kind of noise, around the side of a small shop to his left. There was a scuffle, and a low echo of voices reached him from across the walkway. 

Sharp would have thought nothing of it- it wasn’t his business, after all-but just as he was starting to draw the castle gates into his mind’s eye for apparition, one of the voices became clearer and far more familiar than he was expecting.

He wasn’t sure if it was the whisky or his own innate curiosity that drove him forward, but he was casting Disillusionment and slinking forward before he could think better of it.

The potions professor placed a hand against the cool stone wall of the shop for support, peering around the corner with practiced caution.

Two figures stood huddled in the shadows cast by the eave, one of them unmistakably Jessamine Blunt. He recognized the cut of her clothes, clearly Muggle-made against the regular backdrop of wizard fashion. The other figure appeared to be a man, turned away from Sharp and standing very close to the young witch. They spoke in whispers, their heads bowed closely together.

At first, Sharp thought he was intruding upon some sort of midnight tryst. He was about to back away, return to his chambers and drink until he had no memory of his evening adventure, when Jessamine shifted. A small glimmer of moonlight slashed across her nose, revealing small scraps of a very serious, very unhappy expression. It gave him pause, and he found himself charming his hearing, amplifying their whispers into discernible conversation.

“And you’re sure you looked through everything?” Sharp heard her saying. There was a tinge of desperation to her words.

“Yes miss, I’m positive.”

The man shrugged, and started to turn away, but Jessamine grabbed him by the forearm.

“Please, Mister Andrews, this is important. Anything you think might be related could be helpful.”

The man called Andrews shook her off and crowded the witch against the wall. She looked up at him defiantly, but it was clear that she was uncomfortable. Sharp was reminded of his own actions earlier that day, and winced to himself. He readied his wand in case there was trouble. 

“Now you listen here, miss. There is nothing. You’re looking for something that doesn’t exist, and I suggest you stop now before the Ministry catches wind of your little mission or whatever this is to you. The case was closed, and the matter settled years ago. Let it go.”

Andrews backed off, turning away. The stern expression he wore was belied by a baby face lined by curly red muttonchops, and Sharp recognized the man as an ex-student. But what caught his attention wasn’t the whisky-addled burst of recognition, but a very familiar badge glittered against Andrews’ lapel. 

Jessamine was quiet for a moment, then: “I believe I still owe you dinner, Mister Andrews.”

The Auror-in-training shook his head.

“Think nothing of it, miss. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. Good evening.”

Space folded in on itself for a moment, and then he was gone. The witch pressed the back of her head to the shop wall, breathing deeply and staring up at the moon as if it were the source of all her woes.

Sharp saw his chance to make a break for it when she slid down into a crouch, burying her face in her knees to muffle her sobs. It felt so desolate, so private, that he couldn’t abide by standing witness. He stumbled through a cursory check of the area. When he was satisfied she was in no danger, he made his way back to the main road, more unsteady on his feet than he had been when he first left the pub, now that the dead weight of his leg was beginning to return. His head spun with questions he had no right to ask, and an old need for answers he had no right to know began to burn in his breast.

As he drifted through Hogsmeade to the bridge, where he planned to jump to the gates, he made up his mind about three things.

The first: he would apologize to Jessamine Blunt as soon as he got the chance.

The second: he would keep a much closer eye on her for the foreseeable future. 

And the third: He needed another drink as soon as possible.

Chapter Text

Sharp’s assessment had rung true: Jessamine wasn’t great at magic.

But she was very, very good at getting into trouble.

Trouble, it turned out, was a lifelong affliction for the witch. It had started at a young age, manifesting as clumsiness. Jessamine couldn’t recount the number of times she’s bumped into a table that held a vase full of flowers, or knocked a teacup to the ground in some childhood fervor. Before the death of her father, her mother would sigh, twitch her wand and enact Reparo with good humor, and suddenly the transgression wasn’t just forgiven, it was erased entirely. 

But after her father’s death, things had changed.

In place of a quick pat on the head and a reminder to be more careful, there were cold glances, reprimands, and dustpans to clear away the debris. Things that were broken simply stayed broken, or were tossed out and forgotten. She was quick to realize that this was a habit largely kept by Muggles, and her mother’s renouncement of magic caused her to adopt nearly all of their strange, sometimes unseemly conventions.

As Jessamine grew, her penchant for disaster began to manifest in new, increasingly chaotic ways. Even before her magic started trying to make itself known, she would find herself marched home by schoolteachers for things she hadn’t done (or, at least, hadn’t started), or would spend afternoons weaving through crowded streets, a disgruntled shopkeeper or officer of the law in hot pursuit. 

A childhood that had once been filled with joy crumbled bit by bit into an endless cycle of admonishment and embarrassment. Eventually, it came to an inauspicious end, and adulthood crept over the witch like dusk to dark. Long used to her bizarre lot in life, Jessamine carried herself across the globe in pursuit of her goals, unfazed to find herself adrift in a lifeboat in the middle of an ocean, or sitting in a jail cell for the evening in a strange new country.

However, it seemed that with every passing day, her troubles became increasingly more dangerous. She was not without her defenses; between her wit, fleet feet, and years of scuffles against children twice her size, there was much she could do to defend herself in the world she’d come from.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t the faintest idea of what to do when staring cross-eyed at three wands pointed practically up her nose, which was precisely the situation she had stumbled into by Sunday afternoon.

In the day that followed their spat, Jessamine seemed to evaporate from Sharp’s life, and Hogwarts at large. She didn’t take any of her meals with the rest of the faculty, and Sharp felt the raise of an irritated eyebrow in his direction from Weasley that morning. The young witch also didn’t show for any of their scheduled meeting times, but Sharp had anticipated that. 

It remained his intention to catch up to her, but no matter where he went or what he tried, she managed to outrun him (admittedly not hard to do these days, but still) or be so otherwise indisposed that he didn’t feel approaching her would be appropriate.

In the end, Sharp gave up on trying to find an in-person opening and sent a formal message to her chambers with his apology that evening. It was succinct, simple and elegant, he thought. A perfect way to make amends for his transgressions.

Of course, she ignored it entirely, which aggravated him to no end. 

So without quite realizing it, Sharp decided not to put himself in her path, but follow it, instead.

With no further preparations left to make before the school year started, and no training lessons to provide, Sharp had plenty of time to himself ahead of the arrival of students. He divided his freedom between personal errands, research, rounds of drink, and tracking the increasingly odd habits of his charge.

On Friday morning, he found himself peering down at her from a tower window just before breakfast, watching with intrigue as she hurried towards the main gate, dressed in what looked to be men’s clothing and a hat pulled low over her face.

Sharp decided to trundle along to Hogsmeade and tidy a few things in his cottage that day. He caught sight of Jessamine as he passed through, following as she wove her way to the Hog’s Head, a surprising and dangerous choice for a young lady, regardless of her mode of dress.

He milled around awhile, keeping within crowds and just inside doorways, until she emerged again, pale but otherwise unscathed. She hurried off, and he continued on to his own business, making a note to visit the seedy pub that evening and see what he could find out.

A simple disguise and a few galleons later, and he came away knowing that the young witch had met with two people, and both money and papers were exchanged. What they were on about, however, remained a mystery.

On Saturday, he followed her as far as the rail station, where she bought a ticket to Edinburgh and was gone with the first train out. She brought no luggage, and no one came to tell him that she had resigned, so he assumed she would return. He posted a letter by owl to a friend on the police force in the city, asking them to let him know if any incidents involving a young blond witch occurred.

No news seemed to be good news, and Saturday slipped into Sunday.

It was the last Sunday before the students would arrive, and Sharp already had a standing appointment to keep in London. With that in mind, he rose early, and enjoyed a simple breakfast alone in his chambers before heading out. 

Sharp spent the day in the city, dropping in on some old friends and enjoying the constant rush of people no matter where he went. It still felt so much like home, even after all the time that had passed. London both lifted his spirits and drove home the sense of melancholy displacement that seemed a permanent part of his existence since the incident.

Still, even with an entire city laid out before him, he found his thoughts wandering back to the young witch time and time again. Day passed into afternoon, and he was no closer to unraveling his little busybody mystery than he had been that morning.

“Ey up! Where’s tha’ gooin?” 

Sharp shook himself back to the present, waving his hand dismissively at the slight man across from him.

“It’s nothing, Birdie. Just thinking.”

Birdie leaned back in his chair, smirking. Sharp and his companion were settled in a back corner of a Muggle pub. It was atypical of Sharp to avail himself of their establishments until he absolutely had to, but the food was good, the drink plentiful, and patrons none-too-observant. Still, they were careful, mindful of their words and well-concealed wands.

“Known tha long enow’ t’know t’it’s tutty, lad. Now c’mon, out wi’it, if ye can, eh? Some fancy macca ‘ave ye flummoxed, or did tha bray wi’ some wassak an’ coomb out arse oe’er tits?”

Sharp rolled his eyes, the strong Yorkshire dialect as familiar as his own. Birdie had been a presence in his life - sometimes as a friend, sometimes a rival - for nearly all of his 42 years, and he was grateful for a stalwart link to the past that didn’t drive him to the bottom of a bottle.

“Not so much. Those days seem to be further behind me than the last time we spoke, I’m afraid.”

“So tissit, lad?” Birdie pried.

Sharp took a long breath, pressing forward and lowering his voice.

“You remember Alfred?”

Birdie nodded, a skeptical look settling in atop the ruddied cheeks and freckles.

“He had a family…a daughter…at the time of his passing. She’s grown now, and she’s come to teach at the school.”

Birdie’s skepticism seemed to intensify at the way some of the words seemed to stick in Sharp’s throat.

“Oh aye? T’sprog’s became a reet bonny young lass then, eh? Got tha trippin’ o’er thasen f’r ‘er beck an’ call, ‘sat’it?”

When Sharp’s dark gaze narrowed, Birdie leaned in conspiratorially.

“Tha’ssn’t buint ‘er o’er alreedy, 'as ye?”

The other man rocked back in his seat like he’d been slapped, alarm written across his features. The wooden legs of the chair scraped across the worn pub floor, and Birdie cackled, slapping his hand against the table top. Several nearby patrons raised their heads with affronted looks, pretending as though they were more put out than intrigued.

Color sprang up in neon splotches across Sharp’s cheeks, and he scowled into his pint glass. His companion wiped tears from his eyes while desperately trying to stifle his laughter.

“Ye should see yer face!” he chuckled, doubling over again. 

“If I’m making faces, it’s because your first guess as to the situation was one of complete and utter impropriety. Pregnant, really? I know you have an…excitable imagination, but do try to have some decorum, would you?”

Sharp looked horrified at the very thought. Birdie shook his head in amusement.

“Awlreet, don’ get yer knickers in a twist, lad. Ah’m jus’ coddin’ wi’ye, ye reet barmpot.”

There was a beat of silence.

“So tha does think t’lass bonny then, eh?”

“She’s twenty-one, Birdie.”

“Don’t mean t’lass is nowt t’lookit.” He retorted, waggling his eyebrows. Sharp gave in, taking a long swig of his drink before answering.

“I suppose Miss Blunt could be considered attractive.”

Birdie’s eyes twinkled. 

“To men her own age, ” Sharp was quick to amend. 

“Sound t’me as tha’d run ‘em off ooem sooner than‘at, regardless o’yer maungin’.”

The potioneer ran a hand over his face.

“If I did, it would be for their own good. She’s disagreeable, unreliable, unpredictable, and totally unfit to teach. And that’s after just a week!” He grumbled over the rim of his glass.

“Reckon ah’m still 'earin’ church bells, lad. Tha’s chelpin’ on about t’plight o’ men t’world ‘round, yet t’priests keep in werk.”

Birdie mimed the act of admiring a ring on his finger. Sharp chuckled.

“Well, think what you like, but you haven’t met the woman.”

“Is she so bad?” Birdie asked, sobering. 

The potions professor sighed.

“Likely not amongst peers, but our acquaintance is complicated, at best.”

And so Sharp told him of his troubles, from the moment they met to that very morning. Birdie nodded along, absorbing everything as gravely as though he were a judge in session. When Sharp finished, the other man closed his eyes and leaned back, humming to himself thoughtfully.

“Aesop, tha mun stop playin’ pop wi’ t’lass. Aye, she’s brussen an’ mitherin’ now an’ tha’s fair geffered from t’alreedy, but she’s reet sackless an’ oss; i’ takes time t’find a footin’.”

Sharp swallowed.

“It’s not my intention to bully her. I will do what I can to remain calm, Birdie, but she can be so utterly insufferable that it has driven me to drink.”

Birdie scrutinized his companion, tilting his head.

“Soes us, but ‘ere’s tha. Ah’ll ‘appen tis’ a problem with tha sen,” he offered pointedly.

The potioneer downed the rest of his glass in response. Birdie laughed at this, then regained himself and lowered his voice. The two men spoke in whispers, careful not to appear too suspicious.

“About t’waller from which night…Ah’ll find wat ‘e’s playin’ at. Tha’ll get my missive iffin’ anythin’ coombs up.”

“Thank you, Birdie. I appreciate the assistance.”

The two men sat and chatted about other matters for a short time longer before Sharp stood, using the cover of smoothing his coat as a way to shake out the dreadful dead sensation in his leg without much notice.

“Well It’s been a pleasure as always, old chap, but I must be off. I look forward to our next visit.”

Birdie clucked his tongue ruefully.

“Sure, leave ol’ Birdie all alone an’ run off t’ yer wick an’ bonny young lass. Ah see ‘ow ‘t’is.”

Sharp’s expression contorted into something downright boyish, and Birdie laughed, covertly flipping Sharp the bird. 

But as Sharp moved to pass by the table, Birdie grabbed hold of his arm, lifting a single piece of long blonde hair off the sleeve of his coat. The potioneer, surprised, looked at him warily.

“Flaxin’ ‘aired, t’boot? Oh, a reet jammy sod y’are, Aesop.”

“What are going to do with that, Bertram?” Sharp hissed, the name wielded like a weapon.

The strand of hair disappeared in a spark of light as Birdie rubbed his fingers together. As it did, Birdie’s gray eyes seemed to glow from within for a split second.

“Nowt undue, lad. ‘Ave a bit more trus’ in ol’ Birdie. Ah’ll jus’ be ‘oldin’ ont’ this, in case ‘t coombs ‘andy down’t road. Allus good in times like these t’keep a weather eye castin’ about. By t’ by, keep tha eyes up if ye find tha sen near t’ol’ ginnel t’day.”

Sharp took this in, nodded, and Birdie released his sleeve.

"Gi’ us an ‘oller if those church bells go ketty on ye, eh?” He called over his shoulder, but received no answer.

“‘T’ ol’ ginnel” was Birdie’s name for Diagon Alley. “Near” was a bit more vague, but Sharp had run rampant enough with his companion in their youth to know he meant Carkitt Market. It had already been on his list of places to visit while in town, and so he found himself at Cogg and Bell Clockmakers in the late afternoon, deep in conversation with the proprietor about an old wizarding timepiece that had the unusual ability to attract hordes of mice. 

As the conversation shifted to his—Alfred’s—pocket watch, which he’d brought in to have examined (Cogg and Bell would make one of numerous horologists over the years, none of whom had been able to fix the broken timepiece), his attention abruptly shifted to the glass paneled door of the shop, and he stumbled over his words.

“Everything alright, sir?” The proprietor asked.

Sharp blindly reached for the watch, his attention still on the door. The proprietor dropped it into his hand obligingly.

“Yes…yes, everything’s alright, but I must go. I’ll return when I can, thank you,” he muttered, already limping for the door. 

Out on the street, Sharp peered around, looking for his mark. Ahead, he could just make out a blond in a pinstripe walking suit moving through the crowd.

Two men trailed after her, a few yards behind.

Sharp followed.

Through the throngs of people he threaded as quickly as he dared, keeping the young witch in sight. Eventually, the crowd thinned slightly, and the cloudy day seemed to dim a little more. Sharp knew Knockturn Alley like the back of his hand, but he didn’t relish setting foot there, especially when he could be recognized.

Completely unaware of her stalkers, the witch confidently strode deeper into the dark street, until she slid casually into a shopfront that appeared to sell cauldrons.

The two wizards followed her in, one after the other, as though they were other customers.

The potions professor thought quickly. Whether or not Jessamine was friend or foe remained to be seen, but this smelled of trouble either way. There were too many eyes for charms or transfigurations, and he wasn’t about to climb any buildings for a birds eye view. Instead, he leaned into his limp, stumbling down the road and conjuring a dark green bottle from an inner pocket of his coat, which he let slip down one shoulder, along with his blazer. Sharp tugged at his tie casually, as though it suddenly felt too tight, and swayed as he took a swig from his empty bottle. Suddenly, he was just some drunk wandering blindly down the road, and no one appeared the wiser.

Alfred had taught him well.

Sharp tripped himself and sat down hard on the curb, lolling about with bottle raised high. His wand was dangling from his other hand, seemingly innocuous, and he used it to gently, slowly, open the shop door just a crack, just enough for him to hear what was happening inside. He couldn’t see in this position, which was troubling, but it attracted almost no attention. 

“Miss, I’m sorry, but you’ve been completely misinformed. I’m just a humble shopkeeper.”

Jessamine snorted.

“Don’t give me that. I know you had a hand in it. I’ll pay you to talk.” 

Sharp could practically picture her, staring down the shopkeep, chin held high. He could equally picture her bloodied and broken on the floor, and it made him shudder. He gripped the bottle tighter. 

“Miss…Blunt, did you say? Well, that changes things. It changes things indeed.”

Sharp could hear footsteps, slow and measured. 

“This cauldron holds precisely thirteen liters. Did you know that?”

“Your point?” the witch sounded vexed. 

“And this one here. Very rare, very rare. It’s made of adamantium. Non-reactive, unless you want it to react, and then it’s very powerful indeed.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Sharp could hear the tremor in Jessamine’s voice now. 

“And this? This one’s my favorite. Would you like to know why?” 

“Not particularly, no.”

“It’s very special. It can hold up to all sorts of nasty solutions. Things that could do some real damage. And it’s huge. Big enough to fit an entire person, don’t you think?”

“Mister Hortlorke, if you’re trying to scare me-”

A short laugh, and then more footsteps. Sharp heard clanking, like metal on metal, and presumed someone had knocked into one of the cauldron displays. He tensed, thinking. Darkness was starting to overtake London, and shadows loomed large where they would soon be replaced with light cast from magical lanterns.

“Of course not, my dear. I’m not trying. I’m succeeding. But you said you would pay me to talk, so we’re talking.”

“You know this isn’t what I meant. Tell me about Darkmoore.”

Sharp’s brain scuttled. What—or who—was Darkmoore?

“Well, Miss Blunt, if you’re going to demand that someone talk for money, you might want to specify what it is you want them to talk about first, because you never know what they may say.”

“I see. Well, I won’t make that mistake again in the future.”

Sharp looked around, planning his next move. He started to rock back and forth, talking to himself in nonsensical sentences. He could hear another metallic rattle, and the creak of a floorboard as someone moved. Jessamine let out a tiny sound, like a squeak.

“No, you most certainly won’t.”

The potioneer scrambled to his feet. He chucked the bottle at one of the shop windows. The dusty glass shattered, giving him a clear view through the hole of the young witch. Three wands were pointed toward her face, but everyone had turned to look for the source of the sound. Jessamine’s view of Sharp, however, was obscured by the window display.

“Oi! You sold me a porkie pie, bruv! That pot ain’t worf the bees an’ ‘oney, you roight tea leaf! You ‘ear me?” Sharp screamed at the window, stumbling side to side. 

Jessamine took her cue as if it were planned. She shoved the shopkeep, hard, which sent him toppling into his lackeys. Sharp chucked a well-aimed blast of Ventus through the hole in the window, sending all manner of papers and cauldrons hurtling about. Chaos reigned down upon the inside of the shop.

One of the wizards was beginning to regain himself, and shot off a wild burst of magic. The young witch ducked as it sailed over her head, causing her to stumble into the giant cauldron on display. She caught herself by her hands on the rim, and a ripple ran through the heavy black metal. She pushed it towards her tangle of assailants.

Suddenly, the cauldron lurched off its platform on stubby iron legs. Jessamine shrieked when it began to sprout and gnash teeth it definitely did not have before. It narrowly missed her fingers as it bit down, making strange grinding noises that sounded like growls. Jessamine shoved the giant iron pot towards the shopkeep, then threw herself out the shop door, which Sharp, still yelling whatever came to mind, closed and locked with a flick of his wand. 

Before she had a chance to register who was standing next to her, he grabbed her wrist tightly, and she was overcome with the sensation of being forced into a smaller and smaller space, until she couldn’t expand her lungs to take a breath. Jessamine tried to flail, tried to scream, but she had no control over her body. It was like she was hurtling through the cold void of space. The only sense of being she was left with was her mind, and a strange sense of warmth floating somewhere along with her.

It felt like those terrible sensations went on for an eternity before they abruptly stopped altogether, and Jessamine tumbled knees first into softly waving grass. She didn’t have long to recover, however, before she was being pulled up and shaken by both shoulders.

“What in Godric’s name do you think you’re up to?! You could have been killed!”

Jessamine startled, staring wild-eyed up at Professor Sharp. He looked just as disheveled as she felt. They were standing just outside Hogwarts’ north gate. The sudden quiet roared in her ears. Shaking her head, she cleared her throat.

“We need to talk.”

Chapter Text

“Alright Miss Blunt. Out with it.” 

There was little room to argue. 

Jessamine had nearly fallen to pieces after being apparated to safety, turning so pale Sharp was surprised that she didn’t faint dead away. Reluctantly, he allowed her time to compose herself—and although he would never admit it, he needed a moment to catch his breath as well (side-along apparition clear across a country and a half while under duress wasn’t exactly easy, even for him). She’d led them through the castle, stumbling about on legs that seemed to be borrowed from a newborn fawn. That was how the potioneer found himself standing in the middle of Jessamine’s private chambers, his strict adherence to propriety temporarily discarded. 

The witch’s magic being what it was, she hadn’t yet personalized the chamber’s decor. All of the furniture had been left right where he last remembered it, and while there were markedly fewer books spread out across the room, the ones that were present still bore similar topics and titles to their predecessors. Sharp had half-expected to see poor old Eleazar sitting in his armchair, a pot of tea and extra teacup hovering between him and the adjacent open seat. It had always signaled an invitation to sit and talk.

But there was no teapot, nor teacup, nor kindly old wizard waving him in from between the pages of a book. There was just Jessamine Blunt, daughter of one dead friend, and replacement for another. 

Sharp felt a familiar wisp of guilt and hopelessness flicker to life somewhere deep within his chest. He tamped it back down, promising himself the sweet embrace of senselessness later, when he was alone with his potions and his drink of choice.

Jessamine sighed and threw herself down on the old, yellowed sofa in front of one of the bookshelves. She gestured for Sharp to take any seat he desired, but it was as if he’d glued himself to one particular spot in the middle of the floor. The witch shrunk back into the upholstery under his intense scrutiny.

“Please just sit down and stop staring at me like that. I’m worried I might burst into flames any second,” she complained.

Sharp took a step forward, strong features contorted in a sneer. All at once, Jessamine understood that he’d earned every inch of his reputation for terrifying smugglers and students alike. He opened his mouth, but Jessamine cut him off.

“Honestly, Professor Sharp, I am just a little too tired to entertain your particular brand of menace right now. So kindly sit down and listen . Please?”

A muscle in Sharp’s jaw jumped and twitched. Jessamine was sure he was about to walk out the door and beeline for Headmaster Black. But after a moment, he drew a chair up towards the sofa with a flick of his wand, and settled himself into it without further protestation. She cleared her throat, surprised to have gotten her way.

“Well, you already figured that I had…ulterior motives…for applying to Hogwarts. You weren’t wrong.” 

Sharp leaned forward. 

“Do I have reason to be concerned?” He had yet to put his wand away, and his grip on it tightened ominously.

Alarmed, Jessamine raised her hands in a gesture of surrender.

“No! I mean, yes! But not because I’m plotting anything or whatever it is you’ve gotten in your head about me.” 

A heavy brow raised in her direction, and she took a deep breath before leveling her gaze on the wizard before her. 

“I came here, Professor Sharp, because my father sent me.”

Silence descended like a landslide. Jessamine worried the inside of her lip with her teeth as she watched the subtle changes on Sharp’s face unfold like the climax of a thrilling novel. The rage she could see bubbling just under the surface disappeared abruptly, replaced by a confusion that slackened his jaw and lifted his brow.

“What?” His voice sounded thin with disbelief.

The witch jumped up from the sofa, far too nervous to sit still. Talking quickly, she paced back and forth across the room. 

“My father and I were very close. We did everything together when he was home, and when he had to leave for an extended length of time, he would leave little codes and puzzles for me to solve, like my own little mysteries. I wanted to be an Auror just like him when I grew up, much to my mother’s dismay,” she said wistfully. 

“There were nights where I would sneak out of my bed and wait for him to come home. We’d signal each other through the window as he came up the drive, and then we’d sneak into his study, and he would tell me what he could of where he’d gone and what he’d done. I would eat those stories up, and refuse to go to bed until I’d heard my fill. I think he made some of them up entirely, just for me. 

“But, there were some nights—some mornings, even—when he would come back and would be so, so very tired. He’d look…he’d look so much older than the day before. On those nights, he wouldn’t play our little game, and would instead send me straight back to bed with just a stern look. Nights like those started to become more frequent…towards the end.” 

Jessamine paused to swipe at her eyes. Sharp conjured a handkerchief and passed it to her wordlessly. She dabbed at her face roughly, abashedly. Sharp wondered what had befallen the witch to make her grief seem shameful. Still, he afforded her what privacy he could by staring into the fire, thinking. Soon, she cleared her throat, and he turned his attention back to her.

“One night, just before he died, I decided I wasn’t going to bed when he told me to, but I heard voices I didn’t recognize when I left my room. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I clearly heard one voice say ‘this is the key to this whole business’, and then my father mumbled something, and the voices stopped. By the time I reached his study door, he was alone, writing something in a small journal and muttering to himself.

“As I’m sure you know, my father had a knack for knowing the future, even without dipping into divination. That night, he knew I was there before I ever made a sound. The look in his eyes…it frightened me, Professor Sharp. I never saw him look like that. 

“But he called me into his study just the same. I thought I would surely be punished for disobeying him, but he just picked me up and sat me on his lap.

“He said, ‘Jessa, you’re a very bright and headstrong young girl. I have no doubt that all my puzzles and stories have filled your head with the kind of thirst for mystery that books alone cannot quench, and your mother may well be right to chastise me for that. But there is so much you have yet to learn. I fear there simply isn’t enough time for me to teach you everything.’

“I didn’t know then what he meant, Professor Sharp. I remember looking up at him and protesting, telling him there was time for everything, but he just smiled at me, as though he were suddenly very far away. ‘There will come a day,’ he said, ‘when you will have adventures of your own. But adventures often come with adversity, and I fear I have failed to prepare you as thoroughly as I would have preferred. Promise me, Jessa, that if that day comes, you will swallow that stubborn pride of yours and do as I say.’

“Well, I promised, and he said he would hold me to it. And so here I am. Very much in trouble, and quite desperate for your help.”

Jessamine finished, sitting back down on the sofa. 

“I fail to see what any of this has to do with me. What about your mother? Surely she can help you navigate any… trouble …that you’ve found yourself in?” Sharp queried, the severity of the situation eluding him.

The witch harrumphed , blowing an escaped strand of hair out of her face. Sharp found himself watching it settle right back down against her brow, as stubborn about its position as she was about everything else.

“We aren’t exactly on friendly terms right now, if you must know. I haven’t seen my mother in three years. Not that she’d be of much help even if I had.”

“Then, how exactly—” 

Jessamine interrupted him.

“I received an owl from my father.”

In response to Sharp’s glazed over expression, the witch leaned in conspiratorially. 

 “That letter only arrived a month ago.” 

The potions professor scrubbed at the scruff along his jaw. His thoughts veered in every direction, dancing like water droplets in a hot pan. The witch before him waited with increasing anxiety for him to say something. He sat back in his chair, crossing his bad leg over the other. Slowly, he slid his wand back into his pocket, and folded his hands elegantly in his lap. Jessamine breathed a discreet sigh of relief.

“And what did this letter have to say?” He finally managed.

In answer, Jessamine produced her own wand. She took careful aim at her desk. 

“Accio letter,” she intoned, and a thick sheet of paper fluttered across the room and landed in her outstretched hand. Sharp couldn’t hide his surprise.

“So it seems you do know your Accio from your elbow after all, Miss Blunt.”

She made a face at him as she unfolded the letter.

“I told you, I have practice with this one.”

“Is that so? Well, keep practicing. You almost picked up half the contents of your desk, and all for a single sheet of paper,” Sharp chided.

Rolling her eyes, Jessamine handed him the letter without another word. 

At first, the words on the page were complete gibberish, slipping and sliding around in a tangle of lines and swirls. Sharp pressed a small amount of magic into the thick weave of the paper through his fingertips, just enough to let the paper know he was friend and not foe, and suddenly the scrawl arranged itself into Alfred’s familiar handwriting. Sharp felt transported back in time as he began to read. 

My dearest Jessamine , the letter began,

If you’re reading this, then the future I feared most has come to pass, and I am no longer with you. Please forgive me.

I have failed you, darling girl, in every way that matters. And now I must regretfully pass those failures on to you, to finish what I have started. 

There is trouble afoot, my dear. It has been brewing since you were very young, and now that you are grown, the roots are strong, and the tree is ready to bear fruit. It must be stopped, Jessamine. 

I trust that you remember the little games we used to play. Here is one more:

Bright sun glinted off the waves,

Reflecting your sweet smile.

I watched you playing in the sand,

Giggling all the while.

How I wish that there had been

Time for so much more; but-

Only memories remain

Never fading from that shore.

uym pvnfabc qy aas xfp bu ktfxnfwxl.

Time is short, but there is one more thing I must impress upon you. Do you remember your promise to me, dear girl? The time has come to honor it. Please, if you have thrown away everything else I ever taught you, do not ignore your father now. As much as you may want to, you cannot do this alone. 

When you receive this letter, find my partner, Aesop Sharp. A finer Auror I have never met, and now that I am gone, he is the only one I trust to see you through safely. Listen to him and learn from him. He will have much to share with you, and whether he likes it or not, you have much to offer him. In all the possibilities I have seen, you will be strongest together.

I wish I could be there with you, to shoulder my own burdens rather than pass them off unfinished. I am sorry.

Trust your instinct. Trust Sharp. And above all, be careful.

All my love,

~Your father

P.S.: I know you’re reading this too, Aesop. Take care of her, will you? My daughter will test your limits time and again, but I’m fairly certain you’ll see fit to rise to the challenge. Who knows? Perhaps a new adventure is exactly what you need.

Don’t let me down, Sharp. 

Also, I know you’re going to go looking for a stiff drink after reading this. Lay off. That’s an order from your senior partner, regardless of his where-and-when-abouts.

“Well that’s a very specific postscript,” Sharp muttered to himself.

Jessamine gave him a quizzical look.

“What postscript?”

Sharp’s eyes returned to the spot just below Alfred’s signature, but the postscript had vanished from the page. He tapped the paper thoughtfully.

“Nevermind. Why didn’t you say something about this when you first arrived? And for that matter, why not just send an owl, instead of this whole teaching ruse?” He asked, but he could already wager a guess.

“Because! Everything just went wrong. I never expected to be made a junior member of staff, nor did I anticipate becoming your student. And then you just seemed so angry with me from the first, it just never felt like the right time to ask. I tried to manage on my own, but I fear I’ve just made a bigger mess of things. As for the teaching position…I needed a job, and I am actually qualified in terms of theory. Just not application.” 

The answers to several little mysteries clicked into place, and some of the tension he’d been carrying for a week fell away. Still, he resisted the idea of being caught up in yet more chaos. He studied the letter again.

“This…poem. It’s rubbish to me. Does it mean anything to you? And what about all this gibberish? I don’t think I know any charm to unravel that.”

Jessamine nodded, reaching for the letter.

“It’s a Muggle cipher. Father and I used to play with them when I was a child, since he couldn’t expect me to solve magical ciphers at that age. If you take the first letter of every line in the poem, it spells ‘BRIGHTON’. We went there on holiday once with my Aunt Clarinda. I always wanted to go back,” she trailed off, lost in thought. 

Sharp waited a moment before clearing his throat, snapping her back to the present.

“Right, sorry. Anyway, after getting the cipher key from the poem, we apply it to the message. It involves making an alphabetic table based on repetition of the key, and then shifting letters according to the table, but in the end, the cipher reads ‘THE JOURNAL IS THE KEY TO DARKMOORE’.”

There was that name again. Sharp was practically aflame with curiosity now.

“Miss Blunt, what is this Darkmoore?” 

She shrugged.

“I’ve been asking around, as best as I can, but it seems no one wants to help or knows any more than I do. I know Darkmoore is a person, and everything seems to point to their involvement in my father’s death. But beyond that, I was hoping you would have the answers.”

Sharp ruminated on this. He thought back, careful to avoid any of the more bitter parts of the memory, but could not remember ever having heard or seen the name before. 

“And do you think that this Darkmoore person is the trouble Al—your father was referring to?”

Jessamine stood and took up pacing again.

“I think so. I went over the records, Professor Sharp. I know that neither of you had any reason to think this was bigger than it looked, but I think my father’s death was very explicitly planned, and what happened that night was a convenient path to that end. If not aboard that ship, I’m convinced he would have been killed some other way. I think that if we can find my father’s journal, we can find his killer. And if we find his killer, perhaps we’ll unravel this mystery once and for all.”

As a moment ticked over into a minute, the witch became acutely aware of what it felt like to be studied. Sharp’s staring had taken on a new dimension, one fueled by disbelief more than mistrust. She picked at her sleeves while he dissected and disassembled her with his gaze. A wall which had been missing for much of their discourse seemed to slam into place inside his mind again, and Jessamine found herself wondering how she could have approached the subject any differently. Finally, the ex-Auror spoke.

“Miss Blunt, I appreciate that Alfred had such faith in me, even if it was grossly misplaced. However, I don’t know how much help I can offer. What you read in the records is what happened. Nothing was left out. It was a run-of-the-mill smuggling operation. I got too comfortable and we… I …miscalculated. The Briarfinch went down with all hands, and your father as well. I ended up in the drink, like this,” he gestured to his leg.

”The case was closed, and nothing more ever came of it. I just don’t know what else there could be.”

Jessamine stopped just short of her original position, and Sharp squinted up at her.

“But you’re not going to let this go so easily, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” came the firm reply. “My father was counting on me to see this through, and regardless of whether or not you end up helping, I have no plans to back down now. Especially now that I’ve started making such good friends amongst the local riff-raff.”

Neither said anything for some time after that. Sharp closed his eyes and propped his chin up with one hand. Jessamine moved about quietly, unsure of what to do with herself now that the conversation had lapsed. She took to tidying up the room, all the while wondering if Sharp had fallen asleep in her chair. 

In fact, he was not asleep, but deep inside his own mind. He thought about the letter and the secret postscript. He thought about the mess that had led him to her armchair that evening, and whether or not he should prepare himself for a visit from the Ministry. He thought about involving the Ministry and washing his hands of the entire ordeal.

But mostly, he thought about Alfred.

Jessamine was curled up on the far end of the sofa, reading, when he opened his eyes again. She jumped, her book hitting the floor with a loud smack when he spoke.

“Remind me to add a few stealth charms to our list of things to work on, Miss Blunt. Can’t have you falling behind, now can I?”

For the first time since her first day at Hogwarts, Jessamine smiled at him.

Chapter Text

“Nervous?” 

Professor Ronen stood beside Jessamine at the head of the spacious Magical Theory classroom. She stilled, realizing she’d been rocking back and forth from her heels to the balls of her feet in anxious anticipation. 

“Perhaps a bit,” she admitted sheepishly. 

Ronen chuckled, a warm, round sound that put the witch more at ease.

“So am I. I am always nervous on the first day of school. I’ve seen quite a few first days of school at Hogwarts now, but it’s never any less exciting than the time before.”

Jessamine looked away. She wasn’t certain she would see another “first day at school,” but she hoped that any in her future would be less nerve-wracking than the first. Ronen caught her discomfort quickly, and cleared his throat. There was a twinkle in his eye, as if he knew something she did not. It made her feel slightly off-kilter.

“And how are your lessons with Aesop going? You’re still here, so either you have discovered his ballatratus is worse than his biting jinx, or you’re catching on quickly.” 

The witch thought for a moment. 

“In all honesty, though I’ve made some progress, I fear I’m driving Professor Sharp quite mad. One of these days I’m going to bungle a spell in front of him and find myself depulso’d all the way back to Hogsmeade.” 

This had Ronen rolling with laughter, and he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye as he tried to calm himself down.

“Ah, he can work himself into some truly black moods, can’t he? We have all felt the chill in the air around him at one time or another. Nevertheless, he is an excellent teacher to those willing to learn. I’m sure you’ll be casting like an expert in no time. But, if you do need some extra help with your charms from someone with a friendlier disposition, I am readily available,” he offered, his tone jovial.

Jessamine giggled.

“Thank you, Professor Ronen. That’s very kind of you.” 

“It is my pleasure.”

With little more to do but wait, the witch cast her mind back over the last few days while she waited for the onslaught of students. Inevitably, Sharp sprang to mind before much else.

 After their escapades in London, Sharp had remained in her chambers deep into the small hours. He’d settled into her armchair as though he were simply part of the decor, and whittled away the night asking so many questions that Jessamine swore she could still hear his voice rattling around inside her skull. The smell of the herbal smoke from his pipe (she had given him express permission to partake) had found its way into the nooks and crannies of every surface, and even if she could cast cleaning spells with any potency, she didn’t think it would ever completely fade. 

Finally he’d risen, bid her a gruff good night, and then he was gone. She was left with a deafening silence and the distinct feeling that he was still somewhat displeased with her. She sighed.

Jessamine hardly remembered trundling into her bedchambers and dressing for sleep. Her thoughts were far too scattered to succumb to exhaustion with any rapidity, and she lay with her eyes open to the dark as the seeds of doubt crept back in. She was doing her father’s bidding, but it had been ten years since his passing. She hardly knew if the Aesop Sharp of yesteryear was the same as the grouchy potions professor with a grudge against her.

She worried she would end up like her father.

As birds outside her window began to call, the witch slipped into an uneasy sleep.

Sharp’s invitation arrived scarcely an hour later.

Jessamine groaned and rolled over into her pillow, tossing aside the letter that had fallen on her face from somewhere unseen. She heard it skitter across the floor before settling back in to rest.

Another letter followed. This one she tucked under her pillow, crumpling it in her hand.

The next one slapped her right across her cheek.

“You’re rather enjoying this, aren’t you?” She grumbled to no one and nothing in particular, though she half-expected a final missive with a positive answer. 

When none came, she grudgingly read the letter’s contents, swung out of bed and began to dress. Her sleep-addled fingers kept skipping buttons, her corset was just a little bit bowed, and her hair refused to pin correctly, but eventually, she deemed herself presentable and dashed out of the door.

She was halfway down the corridor, yawning with almost every step, before she realized she’d forgotten her wand. 

By the time she recovered it and made her way outside, it was well past Sharp’s appointed meeting time. Jessamine braced for what she would find as she stepped out from the main gate, expecting a tongue-lashing at the least and a refusal to help at the most. 

To her surprise, Sharp stood just outside the entrance, basking in the early dawn light. His expression was placid, face tipped toward the sun that was just beginning to spill across the courtyard. He looked different, younger somehow, and the witch realized it was because his perpetual scowl had been replaced by a lightened brow and a relaxed jaw. 

Determined not to squander her good fortune, Jessamine smoothed her skirt and patted her hair into something reasonable as she approached, hoping his mood would last long enough for their encounter to reach its natural end.

Sharp decided not to comment on her lack of punctuality, the harried state of her dress, or the dark circles under her eyes, though she knew the last would be impossible to miss. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his frock coat, producing a small amber vial, and held it out to her. 

“A temporary cure for exhaustion,” he explained. ”Not to be relied upon excessively, mind you. Nothing can stand in for a solid night of rest. But, admittedly, we could both use a bit of assistance this morning.”

The witch plucked the vial from his grasp, unstoppered the top, and swallowed its contents down. A cool tingle spread outward from the pit of her stomach. The heaviness in her limbs faded away, as did the fog in her mind. She blinked a few times as she adjusted to her newfound focus and energy.

“Thank you, Professor. This was very thoughtful.”

The potion master nodded curtly, some of his typical grouchy facade slipping back into place, before beckoning Jessamine to follow. He hobbled down the paved walk at a leisurely clip, and the witch kept stilted pace by his side. Neither said a word for some time, content in their early constitutional as the light slanted across careful topiary and regal stonework.

They had done half a loop of the grand courtyard when Sharp cleared his throat.

“I have thought a bit more on your situation, as it were.”

Jessamine snorted.

“Which one?”

This earned her the barest flicker of amusement, evidenced by the way Sharp’s lips twitched up at the corners before he could school them back into a thin line.

“The one we were most recently discussing. I am still wary of proceeding without a blessing from the Ministry. Particularly after you’ve been running higgledy-piggledy at this and, how did you put it? Making such good friends ?”

He was so matter-of-fact about it, as if there had been an obvious path forward and she’d chosen to hike the unknown. It riled her. Still, she bit her tongue, unwilling to endanger her newfound alliance.

“Well, excuse me for trying to do something that didn’t come with an instruction manual,” she grumbled.

Sharp waved his hand, attempting to dispel her crossness. Their stroll slowed to a stop, and it did not escape Jessamine that it would be difficult to hear them from the castle windows without relying on magical aid. She wondered if perhaps Sharp had done something to mitigate that possibility before they ever left the shadow of the main gate, but when he spoke again, it was barely above a murmur.

“That is precisely why you need me. If we are to do this, we must do it properly. And without the Ministry condoning this investigation, we must tread carefully. I require your full attention, but more importantly, your capitulation. In return, you have my aid, in whatever limited capacities I can provide. Furthermore, if at any time it becomes impossible to proceed safely and without assistance, I will be contacting the Ministry, and we shall consider the matter finished. Agreed?”

Jessamine considered, searching his face for answers. There was an undercurrent of something to his words, something that belied his presumption and dictated his stern gravitas.

With a start, the witch realized it was concern. 

She softened. 

It had been a long time since anyone had taken a vested interest in her wellbeing. She supposed she ought to show him the same courtesy.

“I suppose I haven’t much choice. Agreed, Professor,” she demurred.

Sharp fixed her under his stare for just a moment longer, as if trying to figure something out. Finally, he looked away, and they resumed their walk.

“I have a handful of contacts in…curious places, shall we say. I will see what information I can gather about this mysterious Darkmoore. Meanwhile, I would ask that you refrain from meeting anyone on your own without informing me of your intentions.”

“ Anyone ?” The word slipped out before she could stop it. Jessamine held her breath. 

If Sharp could have blown his beard off with the force of his sigh, he would have.

“Within reason , Miss Blunt. Merlin knows I don’t need to know every detail of your personal life. What you do in your own time outside of this endeavor is your own business. I ask you to keep it that way.”

Jessamine fought to suppress a giggle behind his back as he limped into the open clearing. There was a giddy feeling taking root that made her lightheaded, and she delighted in the thought of teasing him.

Sharp stopped again just in front of the large stone fountain.

“Now then, you’ve been shirking your academic duties for far too long.”

“I have not. I’ve just been, er, otherwise occupied.” She turned her nose up at him. ”Besides, I seem to recall someone decided to go off shouting, and all over a silly little feather.”

The potion master was not amused.

“Mm, yes, I believe that someone was you . However, the experience did prove somewhat enlightening on one front.”

At her confused expression, Sharp conjured the feather on the ground before her.

“Levitate the feather again, Miss Blunt.”

Jessamine fumbled for her wand, anxious about being put on the spot. She carved through the air in a measured fashion, and enunciated the charm, but nothing happened.

“I don’t understand. I managed it before and I wasn’t even trying.”

“You also charmed a cauldron to bite bare-handed,” he said slowly, squinting at her technique. 

“I suppose I did. I wasn’t thinking, I was just…”

Sharp vanished the feather.

“I know. That is the point.”

“I don’t understand.” Jessamine felt lost. “When our lessons began, I managed to levioso the envelope my father’s letter arrived in. And you saw yourself that I can summon with fair accuracy.”

The wizard huffed.

“I don’t know that I’d consider your accuracy quite fair, but that is another conversation entirely. On either of those two occasions, were you thinking about the intricacies of spellwork either time, or was your use of magic a means to an end?”

The witch’s memories were being broadcast as clearly as if he were witnessing them himself. Sharp allowed her a moment of introspection before redirecting her attention.

“You’re a theoretician, are you not?”

She shifted uncomfortably.

“I’d like to think so.”

“And you are deeply familiar with why magic works the way it does, correct?”

“I am,” she sniffed, unsure as to whether or not he was heading for an insult or not.

“And yet, like a Muggleborn first-year, you seem to not understand how it works. You cannot just wave your wand, mutter an incantation, and expect success, regardless of what is pressed between the pages of your textbooks. Spellwork takes as much heart as it does knowledge. Without that, all you end up achieving is folly.”

Jessamine pouted, but did not offer a rebuke. He continued.

“I suspect that your success during times of heightened emotion or distraction can be attributed to the fact that you do not have time to consider anything except a desired outcome, however vague it might have been. I intend to put that theory to the test.”

The witch was about to ask him what he meant when he reached into his pockets again. In one hand he withdrew his wand, while the other re-emerged with another potion bottle. He released the bottle, where it remained hovering in mid-air. 

Bewilderingly, Sharp conjured a coat rack. He slid his frock coat and jacket from his shoulders and threw them haphazardly towards the object, which vanished with his discarded clothing in tow as soon as he turned away from it. Even without the heavy layers, the professor still cut a tall, proud figure. Jessamine imagined that he must have moved with a great deal of grace before his injury, and her mind immediately supplied a vision of a younger, less burdened Sharp floating blithely across a crowded dance floor with a pretty witch on his arm.

Her cheeks pinked, and she banished the unbidden thought back to wherever it had come from.

“Ehm, what exactly did you have in mind, Professor?” She winced at the upturned pitch of her own voice. 

Sharp, however, didn’t seem to notice. He took up the potion bottle bobbing innocuously to his left and uncorked it. Alarm bells began ringing in Jessamine’s brain.

“It’s high time for you to really put your back into your spellwork. I want to see if you perform better with a little…convincing.”

“What is that?” The witch squawked.

“A bit of insurance,” was all he said before he drank the concoction down in one swig. 

There was no visible change to Sharp’s person, and he vanished the bottle as though nothing had happened. Jessamine tried to relax. 

“Alright. What would you like me to do?”

“You are going to try to hit me with any offensive spell you can muster.”

The witch’s mouth fell open in shock. That same blink-and-you’d-miss-it smirk from before danced across the wizard’s face, and he twirled his wand between his fingers in a cheeky grandstand.

“With all due respect, Professor Sharp, have you lost your mind?”

When he didn’t respond with anything but a shrug, Jessamine put her hands on her hips.

“Seriously? Are you seriously asking me to try to hit you with something? I don’t even know what to cast! I could hurt you, or—or worse!” 

Sharp rolled his eyes.

“To do that, you would have to successfully cast and land a spell. Doubtful you’ll manage either, let alone both, but it’s a risk I am willing to take.”

Jessamine threw up her hands in exasperation before roughly brushing past him, headed for the castle entrance.

“No, I can’t do this. Not like this, not today, and not with you. I am going to go practice something safer, somewhere far away from any bloody barmy wizards. Good day!”

She’d managed to make it to the main walk when a hedge sprung up before her, blocking her path, and she was overtaken by the most unpleasant stabbing sensation pricking the soles of her feet. Jessamine yelped and whirled around to glare at the potion master, who did not lower his wand but an inch.

“Did you just shoot me ?” She demanded, shaking out her right foot when the feeling threatened to recur.

In answer, Sharp fired again, a tiny wordless spell that caught her in the left shoulder. Jessamine jumped, slapping her hand over the area that felt like it was suddenly being bitten by a thousand invisible ants.

“Stop it,” She hissed, pushing at the puff of her sleeve and trying in vain to quell the itchy sting.

He ignored her, firing again, this time catching her in the right side. The witch squawked unhappily, rife with embarrassment and a rapidly growing anger. 

“You can’t win a duel without casting at least once,” he drawled, firing at her feet again, though this time she managed to side-step it. Barely.

“I can’t do it and you know bloody well that I can’t!” She sounded desperate, but Sharp didn’t falter.

“You can and you will if you want this to end.”

He punctuated his statement with several more spells, fired off one after the other. Each one found its mark, except for the last.

The last blow went wide into the topiary because Jessamine had moved to raise her wand against him. It trembled in her hand, the blue glow fading as the energy of her spell dissipated. She looked at it with the same wonder as she had the feather in his classroom. A startled laugh fell from her lips, the noise somewhere between elation and disbelief.

Sharp released his Protego charm, looking incredibly self-satisfied. Even so, he raised a judgemental brow at her, as if to mock how weak her spell had been.

Jessamine felt her magic welling up as it had so many times before. This time, however, she had a clear target and a clearer purpose: she would do whatever it took to wipe that smug look off Sharp’s face.

“ Cerullious ,” she hissed, and another bolt of blue sparks burst from her wand.

Of course, they never got anywhere near Sharp, who merely deflected the blow and fired off another blast of his own.

Jessamine took that blow to her right knee, but gamely ignored the unyielding irritation. 

“Is that all you’ve got?”

“ That was more than I’ve managed in my entire life!” 

The truth of her words a momentary distraction, Sharp brought her back to the battlefield by driving a percussive charm into the water of the fountain. It splashed over her skirt, jacket, and into her face. She spluttered, looking so shocked and forlorn that for a moment, he wondered if he’d gone too far.

And then she started to laugh.

“Merlin, that’s cold!” She wiped at her face with her sleeve.

“I’ll give you a moment to dry off,” he offered, a bit chagrined. 

“No, thank you. I’d much rather practice on you than on myself.”

“Is that so?” There was a wicked gleam in his eye.

”Well then. So be it. Calvorio !” He roared, and Jessamine shrieked, ducking to avoid the attack. 

She scrambled for cover, patting her hair protectively.

“That was just cruel!” 

There was no answer. The witch peeked out from behind the hedge, wand at the ready. 

Sharp was gone.

“Shit,” she muttered to herself. As she took a few steps backward, the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

“Language, Miss Blunt,” a voice whispered from behind her.

Jessamine whirled around, shooting whatever spell she could fire off, but met with nothing but thin air and the echo of a chuckle. 

“Better luck next time,” the voice rasped against her ear.

This time, she didn’t take the bait. The witch continued to back up around the side of the hedge, head down. It occurred to her that there was probably something she should be casting to silence her steps, but she supposed this was just a mock duel.

The croaking was enough to make her wish she’d thought differently.

Unbeknownst to witch and wizard, a small audience had gathered at a north-facing window, watching the curious scene unfold below. As Jessamine streaked across the cobblestone courtyard, pointedly pursued by a small army of frogs, Mirabel Garlick jabbed the tip of her own wand at the glass.

“Found him.”

Several sets of eyes followed the path of the slim wooden object.

“Ah, yes, there he is,” Satyavati Shah confirmed. 

“Slippery as a snake. A true Slytherin, if I do say so myself!” Ronen chuckled.

“Don’t be silly Ronen. He’s barely even trying,” Dinah Hecat mused. “That said, I daresay Aesop might actually be having fun . And high time, too.”

Several shots were fired in rapid succession in the courtyard below from both directions. 

“I wondered why the hedges had suddenly sprung up so high. Seems to be a few more strewn about, as well. Do you think he planned this with Gladwin?” 

“If he did, it appears that his plan is working. She is already getting better,” Onai offered, and heads nodded all around.

From their vantage point, they watched as Jessamine performed her first successful deflection, her knowledge of theory helping her to rapidly unlock an arsenal of new skills. She feinted right and then shot from low on the left. The miss was so narrow that Sharp actually reeled back in surprise (though it was clear the charm had been a stroke of luck, rather than skill), just before he sent up a blaze of smoke she could not yet repel to disguise his uneven retreat. 

“It looks like the leg is starting to act up. A pity,” Shah murmured.

“I’ll set aside more herbs for his pain potion,” Garlick decided.

“Do you think he will let her win?”

Hecat shook her head. 

“No. He’s too proud. And besides, it wouldn’t do her any good.”

“It might build her confidence quicker.”

“Under false pretense? Hardly. Give the girl a little more credit than that.. I’d expect her to see right through that sort of ruse.”

At that moment, Matilda Weasley strolled by the crowd at the window. 

“Am I missing the first official meeting of the dragon-watching club?” She quipped.

Ronen beckoned her closer.

“No, Aesop is fighting our new Assistant Professor by the fountain.”

The color drained from Weasley’s face.

“What?!” She pushed herself closer to the window as Ronen laughed.

“It’s just a bit of friendly competition, Matilda. All in the name of education! I wouldn’t worry. Aesop has things well in hand.”

Just then, a spell went wide and took the top of the fountain clean off. Water began to shoot everywhere, and lily pads sloshed out across the courtyard as the debris tumbled into the great stone basin. Garlick made an unhappy noise in the back of her throat.

“Well, mostly,” Ronen coughed.

Weasley sighed.

“It’s fixable, at least. Better for them to get it all out now, rather than after the students arrive.”

Agreements went up all around, and the group fell back into occasional commentary with every interesting play on the field. Bubbles drifted toward the sky. There was another burst of colorful energy from a far corner of the space, and a distant cry of astonishment—though from whom, none could tell. The hedges rearranged themselves as needed, creating a unique maze full of traps and cover for one or the other to take advantage of.

Sharp shambled back into view, practically hopping on his good leg so as not to slow himself down with the bad. He put more weight on it only when he needed to compensate for recoil or a forward jab. Even from such a distance, his colleagues could see he was enjoying himself, despite his pain.

Ronen tapped his chin thoughtfully.

“In the eight years I’ve known him, I don’t recall ever seeing him quite like this.”

A murmur of assent swept through the little crowd.

“He has been more animated since she arrived. It is as if he is waking up after a long sleep.” There was a twinkle in Onai’s eye.

“Our Aesop is like a fire lily, revealing a beautiful blossom at the apex of his winter.” Garlick’s hands fluttered in front of her, as though to illustrate a flower opening in bloom. 

“It is not healthy for him to spend all his time scaring students and sulking in the library, after all. He needed a push in the right direction.” Shah said.

Weasley’s brow furrowed, but there was an undeniable fondness in her words.

“I thought I made a mistake asking him to mentor her, but now I’m not so sure.”

Below, Jessamine wove between jinxes and charms that seemed to come from every direction. She was sneaking through the center of the courtyard, too wrapped up in the game to be concerned by the debris and water spurting everywhere. Sharp had obscured himself again, and she was on high alert, seeking any motion or outline that would give away his position.

A flicker of movement caught her eye, and she spun around, wand held high. As she did, her foot slid on one of the displaced lily pads, and she lost her balance.

Jessamine yelped, But the pain she expected to feel was superseded by a gentle tug from the front of her shirtwaist, accompanied by a soft heave of breath.

She blinked up at Sharp in a stupor. He stood over her in a lunge, precariously balanced on his good leg. His face was ruddy with exertion. It was obvious that he was just as surprised as she was. Jessamine’s gaze dropped to his wand. It glowed bright in his hand, and the witch discovered she was suspended in mid-air on the end of a seizing charm, the back of her head mere inches from the edge of the stone fountain. 

As if in a dream, Jessamine lifted her hand slowly.

“ Cerullious ,” she whispered.

A tiny jet of blue sparks emerged from the tip of her wand, and a couple landed on the sturdy fabric of Sharp’s vest, harmlessly petering out on their own. Her cheeks dimpled with mirth.

“I do believe that’s the match, Professor.”

The twist of the potion master’s mouth was wry.

“A cheap win, Miss Blunt, but a win nonetheless. Up, quickly now.” 

He tugged gently with his wand. Jessamine scrabbled to her feet, and Sharp pushed up into a standing position with a grunt.

She turned, about to shower him with thanks when his hand clamped down over his left thigh and he groaned. Her face fell.

“Are you alright?” 

Sharp was clearly anything but. His leg trembled violently, threatening to give way at any moment. Jessamine reached gingerly for his elbow, but he roughly shrugged her off. He radiated anger and pain as he sank down heavily onto the surround of the fountain basin. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Jessamine realized neither of them were getting wet from the spray, and she wondered when he’d even found the time to cast Impervius .

“I am fine,” he gritted out from between clenched teeth. “Just repair the fountain, Miss Blunt.”

Jessamine tried, she truly did, but with the adrenaline from their encounter ebbing away, the pieces of the fountain refused to stick together. She could feel the weight of Sharp’s stare at her back.

“I should have guessed,” he muttered, though it sounded more like an academic discovery than an insult. The witch endeavored not to take it personally. 

“We are finished for today. I will repair the damage when I can. You are free to go, Miss Blunt.”

“What about you?” She pressed a hand over her mouth as though the words were a curse, immediately chastened by the intensity of his scowl.

“As I said, I am fine.”

“But—”

“ Go .”

Jessamine turned and fled up the walk, refusing to look back.

The audience at the window heaved a collective sigh, beginning to turn away. Only Ronen stayed where he was.

“Abraham?” Weasley asked, a few steps away.

He was decisive in his answer.

“She is good for him, Matilda. Let us hope he realizes the same.”

And so Monday had passed into Tuesday, and Jessamine did not see Sharp again until the Sorting Ceremony. She had wondered if she would be seated with the other members of staff, and to her delight, found herself placed beside Mudiwa Onai, and directly across from Sharp. He nodded at her once upon settling into his chair. 

The ceremony fascinated Jessamine, who wistfully wondered what house she would have belonged to if things had been different. Regardless, she found her thoughts—and her gaze—drifting across the space every so often. Sharp maintained a well curated air of disaffection, but the witch noticed he seemed to be cataloging students as they were sorted. One reaction caught her by surprise. 

A small girl with hair the color of a carrot hopped up onto the stage and took her place on the stool. 

“Ah, another Weasley!” The Sorting Hat intoned. 

Sharp flinched.

“Niece of the Assistant Headmaster,” Onai offered, leaning over to speak to Jessamine in a low voice. “Her brother is a natural at exploding his cauldrons. I foresee a few more incidents in the very near future. And a few more gray hairs.”

In a blink, the girl was sorted into Gryffindor (“same as always,” the Hat offered by way of explanation),  and Sharp was quick to gather himself by the time she’d skipped down to her table. Jessamine laughed quietly behind her hand, wondering if she would end up having the same reaction to any students as the year progressed.

She would soon find out, as she was torn from her musings by the first creak of her classroom door. A gaggle of muzzy-eyed children filed in, eyeing the two professors warily.

Ronen nudged her with his elbow, assuming as serious a face as he could muster.

“Stay alert, Assistant Professor Blunt! You never know when one of them is going to strike!” 

He made a grand show of hiding behind Jessamine and peering out from behind her, which earned a few scattered giggles from the first-years. Jessamine visibly relaxed, and Ronen dusted his hands off before settling into a chair of his own.

You’ll do just fine, my dear. I’m here if you need me.”

Jessamine nodded, straightening up and drifting forward. As the door closed behind the last student, she looked around and drew a deep breath.

“Welcome, everyone, to Magical Theory!”

Chapter Text

“It’s pink. Is it supposed to be pink?”

Jessamine’s voice bounced off the high arches in the nearly empty Potions Classroom. Sharp shook his head without looking up, making a note in his journal from the book he’d been perusing. 

“Only if your goal is to grow innumerable extra toes after drinking it. Scrub out and start again, and do try to completely powder the grimbeak claws this time. It’s a bit crass, but there’s a saying we used when I was a student. If it’s fine, it’s divine, but if it’s gritty, then it’s—”

“And you tell me to watch my language,” Jessamine cut him off, and he huffed a wan chuckle.

“I am not above sinking to your level if it helps you to succeed.”

The witch scoffed at him, but set about trying to vanish the mess from her cauldron. She was making progress, because by Sharp’s count, it only took six tries and a slightly burnt fingertip for her to properly cast her charms. He suspected the mild injury was the impetus that caused her to stop overthinking her spellwork, but he decided to count it just the same. 

A week had passed since the day at the fountain. A week filled with teaching, Weasleys (he loathed the plurality), detentions, pain potions, firewhiskey when those didn’t work, sketching, research, covert correspondence, and her . 

Something was shifting between them. Sharp could feel it. It was as though an invisible curtain was starting to lift, and each could see more of the other. Where before there had been looming walls of ice, suddenly there were puddles to signal warmer climates ahead. Their fragile camaraderie was foreign, and yet so familiar that Sharp felt adrift in time, acutely aware of how much he’d missed a Blunt’s blunt wit and humor.

But the trivial banter and idle conversation that he reserved for distracting her from her own insecurities were as far as he would allow things to progress. As many similarities as they shared, she wasn’t Alfred, and he simply could not afford to become attached like that again. 

A part of him worried that he already had.

“Professor? Did you hear me?”

“Hm?” Sharp shook himself slightly. “No, apologies, I was…focused.”

Jessamine glanced up at him while she stirred, pulling the metal spoon up from the bottom of the simmering mixture and then around the edges of the cauldron by hand rather than with magic.

“I asked if you’d always had an interest in potions.”

Sharp rolled his shoulders.

“More or less. It started when I was quite young, before I could even cast a single spell. I had an uncle who adventured, and it was he that introduced me to the subject. He was always returning to the family home and working on all manner of brews that would provide stable, long-term solutions to various maladies while afield. By the time I became a student of Hogwarts myself, potions were already my primary focus. As I recall, there was a brief period as a boy when I was… less concerned with them than I ought to have been, but my interest rekindled soon enough.”

There was a beat.

“What was their name?”

The playful glint in her eye made her meaning unmistakable. Sharp disguised his chuckle as a yawn, hiding it behind his hand. Sometimes, she could be all too clever.

“Do you really think I was so easily distracted as a young man that I would have risked my N.E.W.T.s over some silly infatuation?”

Jessamine hummed, setting the spoon off to the side and taking to the mortar and pestle with redoubled vigor from the last attempt. The potion master sat back in his chair, defeated and nostalgic. 

“Her name was Primrose Thistlepike. Prim for short. Ravenclaw, through and through. Had all the makings of a gifted herbologist.”

The witch’s delighted giggle had an air of victory about it. Sharp closed the book. His quill finished the last line of notes he’d been writing in his journal, then returned itself to the holder beside the inkwell.

“And?” Jessamine prompted. “Did she break your heart, or did you break hers?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a terrible busybody?” He griped, but there was no real fire behind it.

“ You have on multiple occasions already. I just opt not to acknowledge it.”

“That appears to be your approach to my instruction, as well. An even finer grind, Miss Blunt, or you will need wider shoes by morning.”

Duly chastised, Jessamine returned to her work. There were a few minutes with nothing but the sound of cracking and grinding filling the air before he drew a deep breath.

“I knocked over her prized bouncing bulb.”

“You didn’t!” The witch’s hands flew to cover her mouth in surprise, pestle thankfully abandoned, and Sharp could tell she was trying not to laugh at him. He shifted his gaze to the ceiling, fingers drumming lightly against the arm of his chair.

“It flung itself about the greenhouse with such violence that we were certain it was going to destroy everything in its path, including us. It made a terrible mess. A fair amount of cabbages went rolling and began nipping at the tentaculas, which made quick work of their newfound foes, of course. Herbs were flattened in their beds, several plants started oozing stinksap everywhere in response to the disaster, and the puffapods the fifth-years were growing blew their spores and sent themselves into a blooming frenzy. We were lucky the mandrakes were in another greenhouse that term. Prim tried every technique she knew to settle the bulb down without getting in its way, but when it realized where we were hiding, the blasted thing—add the powder now, Miss Blunt, or you’ll miss your opportunity—where was I? Ah, yes. That monstrous menace made straight for Prim and I. Wanting to be a hero, I reacted without thinking things through.”

“What did you do?”

“I lit the damn thing on fire.”

“Did that stop it?” Jessamine’s voice held a note of disbelief, as if she couldn’t quite figure out how things had gone wrong. 

Sharp nodded slowly, closing his eyes.

“It did. I jumped in front of her and set that infernal plant ablaze, destroying five years of Prim’s hard work. And that wasn’t the worst of my transgressions against the poor girl. Do you know what happens when one is exposed to puffapod spores, Miss Blunt?”

“No, what?” 

She was stirring again, but her focus was entirely on him. ‘Good’ , he thought. Perhaps this time she’d manage her brew.

“They make their victims extremely dizzy. Prim was busy dousing the withered remnants of the bulb with water so as not to set the rest of the greenhouse on fire, and I was trying to vanish the smoke and remaining spores. Regrettably, when I turned round I lost my balance, knocking her right into the most foul swath of mud that either of us ever had the displeasure of experiencing until that day. I’ve still never found one worse.”

Sharp had never heard his classroom filled with laughter before that evening, but as Jessamine doubled over her workstation clutching at her sides, he had the passing thought that he’d like to hear it more often. 

Whether he meant the general sound or her laugh in particular, he wasn’t sure. He decided to firmly push all such silly notions aside, regardless of whatever meaning he’d intended.

“Oh Merlin, the poor thing! Did she ever speak to you again?” Jessamine finally managed, wiping at her eyes and pressing her palms to her glowing cheeks in an effort to cool them.

“Yes. She begrudgingly wished me well at graduation a year later. Frankly, I don’t believe she meant a word of it. Can’t imagine why.”

His admission sent the witch into another fit, and he was certain he’d divulged too much and her potion would turn out just as bad as the last, but she recovered herself and added three drops of slingtail essence just in time. Her wand drew a perfunctory circle over the cauldron, and Sharp could see from the puff of orange vapor that she had been victorious. He knew the pride radiating off of her was reflected in his own face, so he summoned his gradebook and bowed his head in an effort to maintain neutrality.

“That’s enough for tonight. Bottle your efforts and clean your workstation, please. There is something else I’d like to discuss with you.”

Jessamine summoned two small bottles from their storage hutch. They clinked and clanked together on their way to where she stood, but to her credit, neither shattered. For a few minutes, they both worked in comfortable silence, until she deposited both bottles on the table before him for his inspection. She, too, hopped up onto the edge of the tabletop, crossing her legs at the ankles. He noted with some internal amusement that the toe of her boots just barely scraped the floor from her position.

“This classroom is full of stools, Miss Blunt. You could have chosen any of them.”

“It’s also got a table, which was carefully selected for my needs based on highly academic criteria.”

“And what exactly are those ‘criteria’?”

Jessamine assumed an affectation he suspected was a parody of himself, drawing herself upright primly and adopting a pinched, sour expression.

“The basis of my decision was gauged upon factors including ‘convenience’ and ‘ability to agitate Potions Professors within the local environment.’”

She laughed when he scowled at her from behind a curtain of dark hair.

“Could you be any more juvenile?”

She shrugged.

“I can try.”

“I’d prefer that you didn’t.” 

The witch sniggered into her hand, her shoulders shaking with mirth, and Sharp’s severity evaporated. He allowed her a moment to calm down before he picked up a letter laying atop one short stack of papers. Curiosity bloomed across her features.

“The beginnings of my search were not terribly fruitful, so don’t get too excited. But we are in dire need of a viable starting point. A single name from ten years ago does not make for a successful investigation.”

Jessamine started to open her mouth, but Sharp cut her off sternly.

“Nor does accosting shopkeeps who may or may not have been involved in a decade-old smuggling operation that you know nothing about, based on a passing comment you heard as a child.”

“I had it handled,” she sniffed.

“You did not ,” he stressed. “And had I not been there, Merlin knows what could have happened.”

She planted her hand firmly on the tabletop behind her and leaned back with a long breath in, trying to control her pride.

“Yes, well, I reckon your mysterious ‘tip from a friend’ did work out in my favor that day. Anyway. What did you find out?”

The wizard made a face at her before continuing in a lower voice, as if worried someone might overhear.

“Firstly, there are a great many public records containing the name ‘Darkmoore’ over the last century. Property sales, business registrations, marriages, Quidditch players, even. Nothing remarkable. However, my contact did turn up a much smaller number of criminal records.”

Jessamine hmm’d unhappily.

“I had asked Mister Andrews—the auror-in-training I told you about—to check for criminal records containing that name and any crimes related to smuggling. He told me he didn’t find anything.”

Sharp nodded, his words careful.

“Well, presuming Mister Andrews did as asked, he told you the truth of what he found, because there are no recorded smuggling crimes filed under ‘Darkmoore.’ Every other type of magical crime, yes, but even then, they’re mostly petty. An errant public spell here, a prank gone wrong there. There was even a dispute over ownership of a giant squash, resulting in someone being transfigured into a common garden snail.”

The lamp on the table guttered as Jessamine shifted. Sharp covertly reached for his wand inside his pocket, anchoring everything on the table to the surface, just in case.

“So what does that mean? Is that it?” 

She looked positively dejected at the possibility. He knew he should admonish her, that auror work rarely necessitated such excitement, but they both knew that would be hypocritical of him, for he was just as pleased to have this opportunity placed in his lap. 

“Of course not. Listen to me.” He held his hands out in front of him, gesticulating in perfunctory, straight lines to get his point across. ”Results are built from hard work and perseverance. Leads are discovered, then investigated. Evidence is painstakingly accounted for. No one moves— should move—until there is a clear and steady path to follow. What I…what we are doing right now is similar to looking for a landmark on a map. Once we find that, we have a reference from which to start branching out. Do you follow, Miss Blunt?”

Jessamine inclined her chin slightly in an affirmative, and he continued.

“The acquaintance who kindly turned up this information also repaid another old favor. They have been digging into the current whereabouts of all the Darkmoores turned up from the criminal archives. Some are deceased, some settled down, and two brothers were committed to Azkaban.”

“But someone is unaccounted for,” she finished, and he tapped the letter before him.

“Three someones, in fact. In each case, the Ministry has lost track of them, for one reason or another.”

“I thought there were measures in place to prevent that?”

“There are, but they’re not perfect. If those who have slipped through the cracks stay quiet enough, no one goes looking for them.”

Jessamine frowned, as though she personally intended to change that fact somehow. She sat up straighter, picking at the buttons on one sleeve as she thought.

“So if these three Darkmoores are missing to the eyes of the Ministry, then how do we find them?”

As Sharp grinned a lopsided grin, fire danced in his eyes.

“Allow me to teach you.”

Jessamine felt odd. 

It was one thing to be interrogated and admonished in her own chambers after a harrowing experience. It was another entirely to be standing in Professor Sharp’s sitting room in the middle of the night by explicit request. 

She couldn’t help but cast her eyes around as she timidly stepped through the door. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Given his typical disposition, perhaps more oddities and grim fascinations than were actually on display (as if the stack of cauldrons and the strange artifacts that were displayed outside his door weren’t enough). 

But to her surprise, Sharp’s chambers were fairly sedate, sporting a spartan amount of furniture—compared to hers, anyway—all tailored to his tastes. 

The single armchair by the fire elicited a pang of melancholy deep in her chest. It seemed the only regular companions Sharp had took the form of the half-empty bottles grouped up just within reach of his fingertips while sitting. Whether they were poison or potion, she didn’t know.

Sharp waved his hand in the direction of the chair, a wordless invitation to make herself comfortable as he disappeared into the adjoining bedroom. Jessamine felt an intense urge to avert her eyes from the open doorway as she crossed the room. Still, the wheelchair sitting prone in her peripheral had not escaped her notice. She swallowed, her throat tight for a reason she couldn’t quite put her wand on.

The witch settled into the armchair, struck by how much softer it was than any of hers. Sharp’s felt lived in, an enjoyment and a necessity in the same measure. She was enveloped in the now-familiar smell of his preferred pipe smoke, and a cozy feeling overcame her as she gazed up at the case of milk-white bottles above the mantle, puzzling out their contents.

The heat from the fire dulled her senses and made her sleepy, and she didn’t hear Sharp re-enter the room, his distinctive step-drag deadened in places by the variety of carpets strewn about. He did a double-take on his way to the small table beside his desk, surprised at how peaceful his visitor had become in such a short while. Her eyes had slipped closed, and he wondered with a start if she’d fallen asleep. He wasn’t sure how to feel—or what to do—if she had. 

Jessamine saved him the trouble of figuring it out. Her green eyes slowly opened and fixed on him as he came into focus. She stretched languidly. 

“Sorry, your chair is just very comfortable.”

“Enchanted it years ago,” he said with a shrug. “It takes on the aspects best suited to my leg on any given day. Apparently, it works with the needs of others as well.”

“Did you use one of Smethwyck’s principles?” Jessamine sat forward, pressing her fingers against the chair cushion as if she could determine the enchantment just from touch.

Sharp nodded.

“That’s part of it. It has to be tempered by use case, as well. I’ll show you sometime soon.”

She smiled.

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

He beckoned her over to the table, rolling out the thick sheet of parchment he’d brought in from the other room. It was a map of the world, elegantly drawn with myriad colors and finished with a delicate border. In the center of the border at the bottom of the map lay a blank box.

“Your father taught me a version of this, when he was first assigned as my partner. We refined it together over time. Did you bring the potion from earlier?”

Jessamine fished for one of the bottles in her skirt pocket, and held it out to him. He grabbed the quill from the small writing desk beside the table, uncorked the bottle, and dipped the quill in.

“Watch closely,” Sharp instructed. 

As soon as he touched the quill to the map, the liquid flowing from the tip began to glow. The wizard wrote out one of the names provided to him by his acquaintance. When he lifted the quill, the map surface began to shimmer, the picture rippling. Jessamine watched on in rapt fascination as the map changed and rearranged itself, pushing entire continents out of frame when they were no longer needed. The shape of England grew larger and larger on the parchment, until it had swallowed the entire area inside the border. Counties devolved into cities, and one turned into a maze of streets, until witch and wizard were staring at a drawing of a building on a road in Bristol. The map settled, its corners flicking lightly in what looked like an excited wave.

“Amazing,” she breathed, and Sharp couldn’t help but to admire the look of wonder she wore so openly. 

“It has its uses, certainly.” He made a note of the address displayed by the map on a separate sheet of paper, and then scratched across the name at the bottom of the map. Immediately, the map zoomed back out, settling once again into a state of global cartography.

They made quick work of the next two names on their list. One was to be found in Glasgow, the other in London. Sharp re-rolled the map and corked the potion again. 

“Are those locations absolute? Will we have to do this again just before paying a visit?” Jessamine asked.

“They’re relative. This isn’t quite as exact as a tracking spell, but it is a solid first step. We will need to pay a visit to the general area and do a bit more reconnaissance to see if any of these three seem to be related to the case.”

Sharp straightened up, holding the paper with the locations of all three Darkmoores out to Jessamine. She peered at the addresses as he cleared his throat.

“So. Fancy a trip to Glasgow on Saturday?”

Chapter Text

Jessamine shifted on the carriage bench, trying to position herself so none of the windows were in her field of view; she quickly discovered this was easier dreamed than done. She groaned in frustration, moving again and keeping her chin tucked into her chest as she fought to quell the shivers running through her. Her fingernails squeaked as they dug into wood under the lip of the bench padding.

Sharp had been sitting serenely across from her with his eyes closed, motionless save for the steady rise and fall of his chest, but her fidgeting caused him to stir.

“Not a fan of heights, I take it.”

Jessamine sniffed, trying to appear less miserable than she actually was.

“When one doesn’t come up with such accommodations, one does not become accustomed to them.”

“Adaptability is an important skill for all witches and wizards, Miss Blunt. Even the Muggle-borns take to the skies eventually,” he returned.  

She shot him her most sour expression as she squeezed her eyes shut and gripped the bench harder, a tiny amount of turbulence bouncing the carriage up and down.

“ Eventually isn’t exactly ‘let’s start the day with clouds hurtling by as we are tossed around on the wind in a rickety box by spooky flying horses’, Professor. A little warning next time. We’re not all seasoned adventurers or reckless reprobates, after all.”

Sharp chuckled. 

“No, I should think you are exclusively the latter.”

Jessamine fairly fumed.

The witch had been all for the trip to Glasgow until that morning. Busy between teaching and practicing her own magic, she’d never thought to question their method of transportation. Sharp had descended from his chambers and collected her outside her door, valiantly putting up with her attempts to engage him in conversation so early in the day (it seemed that once she was absolved of sneaking around at night under his nose, she transformed into the morning person he feared her to be from the start).

She was still chattering on to a sleepy, dangerously under-caffeinated Sharp about this student or that spell as they entered the courtyard, and it took her a moment to notice the carriage. Immediately, she stopped in her tracks. Her hand shot out and groped for a fistful of Sharp’s sleeve, and the wizard turned to her with brow raised, waiting for an explanation.

“Ehm…I just remembered I forgot something.”

Sharp shrugged.

“I’ll ask the driver to wait whilst you fetch it.”

“No!” The witch panicked. “No, no, I uh…I mean, I lost it, the, um…the thing I forgot. Somewhere in my chambers. Or was it my classroom? Well, either way, I’d better go start looking. I suspect it might take me some time to find it, so why don’t you just go on without me and I’ll meet you there this afternoon?”

She turned to flee back toward the castle, but Sharp stopped her.

“Can’t it wait, Miss Blunt? We are only going to be in Glasgow for a short while. Surely whatever it is you’ve forgotten can’t be that important? And there are plenty of shops, I’m sure you could just replace the blasted thing. It will take less time than arranging an entirely separate form of transportation, after all. No need for all this fuss.”

He started for the carriage again without waiting for a response, but Jessamine scrambled to grab hold of him once more. Both her hands wrapped around his arm like a snare, and he almost stumbled as he came to yet another abrupt halt. The witch was rewarded with a stern glare. She felt herself blush under the scrutiny.

“My wand!” She blurted out, trying and failing to keep her voice level. “I lost my wand. I didn’t want to tell you before because it’s very embarrassing. I mean, what witch loses her wand while doing perfectly ordinary, day-to-day things?”

“One in particular comes to mind,” Sharp mumbled, distaste and disbelief evident in his tone.

Jessamine bumbled on, positive she could get out of their travel plans if she could just convince him of her—entirely fabricated—folly.

“I know, I know! Misplacing one’s wand is irresponsible, it’s dangerous, it’s—”

“—It’s in your pocket, Miss Blunt.”

She froze, eyes wide and wild.

“What?”

The wizard sighed, gesturing toward her skirts with his free hand.

“I watched you stow your wand this morning, standing outside your chamber door.”

Reluctantly, Jessamine let go of his arm and concentrated on pulling her wand from the space between spaces, even though she already knew what she’d find. With mounting sheepishness, she produced the magic implement and held it up.

“So I did,” she exhaled heavily. “Thank you, Professor, for pointing that out.”

He made a show of straightening his coat and smoothing out his sleeve. The witch rolled her eyes.

“Yes, well, be more aware of your things and your surroundings from now on. Being caught underprepared and oblivious is one of the most dangerous, entirely preventable scenarios anyone can encounter. Now, let us make haste. We have a great bit of ground to cover today, in more ways than one.”

Out of ideas and unable to delay their journey any further, Jessamine morosely trailed her mentor across the cobblestone. He mounted the carriage steps with care, settling himself quickly and stretching out his leg. Reluctantly, she followed suit and sat down opposite him, bracing herself for what she knew would come next.

When their carriage alighted, she stifled a small yelp, nearly launching herself out the door. Eventually, her constant fidgeting and small noises of discontent became far too great to ignore.

Ignoring her sour mood, the wizard produced his wand. With it, he summoned a petite bottle to his hand. Curiosity momentarily overtook Jessamine’s anxiety.

“How many potions do you keep at hand?”

“As many as I think I need, and then some. Just as I said, being underprepared is dangerous,” he answered mildly, passing the bottle over to her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, breaking the seal and working the cork out before starting to drink it down. 

Sharp wiped a tired hand over his face.

“And so is drinking a potion without reading the label.” 

She made eye-contact over the edge of the bottle, one brow raising while she continued to drink (albeit a bit slower). Sharp scoffed.

“Your impudence is showing, Miss Blunt. For all you know I’ve just turned you into a toad.” He paused to consider. “Then again, toads don’t tend to become embroiled in mysteries beyond their experience, nor are they prone to running their mouths off before thinking things through. It actually might be an improvement overall, aside from the warts.”

Finishing the potion, the witch indelicately wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand.

“You’re positively incorrigible, Professor.”

A beat, and then, with a dismissive wave of her hand: 

“Of course the warts would be an improvement. I’d be much more attractive to other toads. Plus, I’d be more useful in potions that way.”

Sharp snorted. Jessamine shook out her limbs, feeling the potion spread through her and quell her fears almost immediately.

“As it stands, I might’ve taken the bait if you hadn’t topped up your stock of Draughts in front of me two days ago.”

The potioneer squinted at her.

“How did you know what I was brewing? I don’t recall discussing it.”

Jessamine was slowly melting into the diamond tufted upholstery. The carriage was quickly becoming the most comfortable place in the world. Everything was wonderful, up there in the sky. Even paranoid potions professors couldn’t rile her up. She shrugged.

“I was curious, so I checked the labels when you deposited them on your desk. By the way, don’t forget that the Headmaster wants a thorough explanation for the Prewett boy’s recent detention. Merlin, this is powerful stuff!”

Well, she thought he couldn’t rile her up. All at once, the wizard looked positively thunderous, and she braced for whatever came next.

“You read my private correspondence?!” He hissed.

“I didn’t read it on purpose!” She shot back. “It fell off your desk when you put the bottles down. I just happened to notice the letter’s contents when I decided to be nice and pick it up for you. Besides, it isn’t as though you haven’t read mine.” 

Sharp crossed his arms and scowled. He looked for all the world like a pouting child after discovering he could not have his way of things.

“Deep-dyed snoop.”, he grumbled.

At this the witch laughed, a light and clear sound that cut through Sharp’s mood like a knife. He fought to maintain his glower.

“I am learning from the best, of course.” she amended once she pulled herself together.

“Of course.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Sharp turned to gaze out the window, and Jessamine found herself studying his profile. She watched as his grumpy expression softened, though it didn’t disappear entirely. She reflected that when he wasn’t angry, he only ever looked puzzled, pained, or forlorn. She wondered what he would look like if he smiled. What would it sound like if he laughed? 

She wondered why she wanted so badly to find out.

They made the rest of the trip with small pockets of chit-chat, discussing a battery of topics that spanned the academic to the inane. Shortly before they began their descent, the driver rapped on the window to let them know that Glasgow was approaching. Sharp leaned over and peered out the window. 

“A knut for your notions, Professor?”

He tipped his chin in the direction of the ground.

“Glasgow is very old, and quite large, though not nearly as large as London. There are a variety of ways that this could go wrong, especially if our man becomes suspicious.”

Jessamine sat up, adjusting the lavalliere at her collar.

“You’ve been here before then, Professor?”

His gaze swung back to her. It was not what he was expecting her to latch onto. He was anticipating questions about the plan, about the potential dangers. Then again, nothing about Jessamine Blunt had been predictable yet. He supposed she had no reason to change today.

“Many times, and a good number of those as an Auror. I’ve always been partial to cities. After…” he trailed off, glancing at his leg. “Well, after I took up my position at Hogwarts, I found I could not always travel to London when I so desired. What started as substitution has become appreciation in its own right.”

Sharp hoped she would leave it at that. He always felt so strange when he spoke of himself in anything less than his professional capacity. That feeling only magnified when he spoke to Jessamine. With their other colleagues, it was so easy for him to skirt the personal inquiries, the attempts to build those bonds through anything other than their shared employment. Even those he considered himself close to knew little of him compared to what he knew of them. He’d set those same boundaries when Jessamine entered his life, and yet he found himself crossing that line over and over again, and he didn’t know why. It frustrated him, and he was starting to lose sleep over it, staring up at the ceiling during the wee hours and thinking of her.

This time would be different. He would keep himself to himself. There was no need for distraction, no cause for him to engage in small talk. It was simple. There was nothing she could ask that he would grace with an answer, unless it came down to magic, Hogwarts, or their current excursion.

“Is there something specific that keeps you coming back?”

Well. Perhaps except that. That was innocuous enough, right? One little personal question couldn’t possibly hurt, could it?

His mouth moved before he could stop it.

“I am…quite fond of the architecture. I come here to sketch from time to time.”

Sharp anticipated an odd look, perhaps derisive laughter. He tensed, waiting to be dismissed for revealing too much, for his actions not matching up to his precisely cultivated image.

The pure delight dancing in her eyes, and the dazzling smile splitting her face left him feeling as though he were fighting for air just sitting still. He assumed it was because no one ever looked so excited when he spoke. He was just flattered. 

That had to be it.

“Really?! That’s incredible. Have you always been an artist?” She leaned forward as she spoke, as though she could somehow glean more information from him if she were closer.

The wizard stared for a moment, before shaking himself out of his stupor.

“No, not exactly. I experienced a long and fairly solitary recovery period after my injury. I was confined to a room in Saint Mungo’s for several months, and save the constant comings and goings of doctors and nurses, there was little to occupy the mind. I felt as though I would go quite mad if it continued, and so it was suggested that I take up some sort of manual hobby. I tried a few things, but eventually settled on sketching. I drew what I could from my surroundings, and that included the view out the window. One thing led to another upon my release, and it became something I enjoy practicing when I have the time.”

If Sharp had just handed Jessamine the sun, moon, and stars, she could not have looked more fascinated. If he’d had his portfolio with him right then and there, he was certain they’d be wading through sheet after sheet of vellum and parchment by the time they touched down. 

“Wait. So all the beautiful blackboard drawings in your classroom…did you draw them by hand? Not with magic?”

He puffed up with pride.

“I did. I’ve found the diagrams to be quite useful when explaining concepts to my less gifted students, and it is a decent form of practice for me.”

Jessamine giggled, leaning back.

“Well, perhaps that explains why I’ve been so taken by them. They are genuinely beautiful, though. So clean, so…so precise! I should have guessed. You are very talented, Professor. I should like to see more of your work sometime.”

If she hadn’t been looking for it, she would have missed it. As Sharp inclined his head, trying to elegantly accept the praise he was being given, the tiniest smile crossed his lips. It was gone in an instant, making way for the slightly hazy frown that she knew as his default expression, but it had been there.

Jessamine promptly decided it was one of the most wonderful things she had ever laid eyes on. She silently prayed she would see it again, and that it might stay for longer next time. She vowed to make that happen.

“Thank you, Miss Blunt,” Sharp was saying when she tuned back in. “That is very kind of you. I suppose I could be amenable to showing off one or two pieces from my portfolio some time.”

The carriage had started its descent when she responded in a murmur:

“I’d like to see them all, Professor, if you’ll show me.”

Sharp was still staring after her when she jumped out of the carriage as soon as it came to a stop. That odd feeling was back, suffusing him with an unfamiliar feeling of warmth while he watched her disappear through the door. 

It was all the result of simple flattery.

It had to be.

Sharp stretched, rolling his shoulders in the clammy air off the River Clyde. They had a short walk to the destination shown to them by their magic map, for which he was grateful. He was embarrassing himself enough.

His cane clicked against the sidewalk with every step. The sound made him want to scream.

Jessamine, to her credit, hadn’t said anything when he had stopped at the mouth of the alleyway where their carriage touched down and produced it with a perfunctory wave of his wand. He felt positively ashamed, but he supposed it was better than having his leg seize up, or having people stare at the angry crippled wizard and the patient young witch saddled with his care, or some such drivel they might come up with.

Said witch was content to fall into step with him regardless, surveying people and places they passed. She seemed pleased to be out and about, and her high spirits helped to keep his thoughts out of the shadowy places they often went when he was forced to use his ambulatory aids.

Tall, stately buildings began to give way to tighter, lower clusters of residential structures. Children played in the streets, jumping in puddles and skipping rope. People were everywhere, riding horses, driving carriages, or simply hurrying by. A cart trundled along, filled with various sundries and goods for sale. The wonderful smells of a local bakery and a florist mingled with the not-so-pleasant background scents of any large city. 

To Jessamine, at least, it certainly didn’t look like the kind of place a dark wizard might set up shop. But she could see Sharp practically cataloging every single detail of the scene before them, and she knew she had to be on guard.

Sharp had laid some clever preparations before they’d started off, but their mission would still require some legwork (he mentally bemoaned the pun). The map provided a general area of interest for them to explore, narrowing it down further required a more delicate touch.

In the past, he’d simply have picked up on the trace created by another Ministry department, or relied on Alfred’s pocket watch to tell him when the mark was, often enabling him to figure out the where . But he couldn’t tap a trace without alerting the Ministry to their activities, and the watch nestled deep in his pocket was still broken, so he was forced to resort to less elegant methods.

And so they walked. Despite the pain potion he’d taken in the alleyway, his leg was burning by the fourth street. He gritted his teeth and leaned more heavily on his cane, before lifting it off the ground and letting it dangle in his hand.

It swung in slow, lazy circles. The handle remained the same temperature it had been all along. Sharp set it back down with a decisive clack .

“I don’t understand,” he muttered, peering around. “He should be around here somewhere.”

Jessamine also looked around, as though she would be able to pick their target out amongst the throngs of pedestrians. 

“Is it not working, Professor?”

He frowned. 

“It would appear that our man is no longer in the area.”

“Do you think he’s gone away for the day and we’ve missed him?”

Sharp slowed, before stopping entirely and pulling close to the edge of a building so he was out of the way of other passers-by. 

“I suppose it’s possible.”

There was something in his tone that caused Jessamine to squint up at him.

“But you don’t think that’s the case, do you?”

The wizard could only frown again in answer.

The pair looked around before quietly stealing into a dim easement between two buildings. Sharp leaned against one stone wall, drawing the map from his coat pocket. He unfolded it and waited for it to change, but it still showed their little section of Glasgow as being the location of the first Darkmoore on their list.

A sudden wave of self-doubt washed over him.

What if he just couldn’t do this anymore?

As Sharp considered his spellwork, Jessamine explored the easement. She ran her fingertips over the masonry and stepped carefully around piles of refuse. As she looked out into the adjoining street, one that they had not yet traveled, an idea occurred to her, and she picked her way back to her companion.

“Professor? We don’t need to actually find Darkmoore as long as we can confirm he’s not our man, right?”

Sharp grunted in the affirmative. Jessamine took a couple steps towards the other side of the easement.

“There’s a post office on the next street, but I’d swear I saw an owl swinging in towards it just now. If there’s an owlery there too, couldn’t we find Darkmoore’s address there?”

She didn’t necessarily expect praise, but Sharp’s clear disdain for the idea surprised her.

“You’ve read far too many of those Muggle detective serials.”

She raised a brow at him.

“Is there a reason we shouldn’t give it a try? I’m sure we could figure something out inside.”

The wizard huffed, peeling himself off the wall. 

“Certainly, but consider what happens if this Darkmoore is our man. We don’t know what we’re up against. Our inquiry could alert him or any one of his compatriots to our presence, and we could suddenly find ourselves in battle, or worse.”

She folded her arms, unconvinced.

“So what do you propose we do now?”

“We keep looking.”

He started toward the opposite side of the easement, where the post office was located. Jessamine was quick to follow, taking note of his worsening cadence.

“But, Professor—” She started, but he cut her off.

“Miss Blunt, you made me a promise of your capitulation. Please hold yourself to that, for both our sakes.”

Jessamine sighed and followed him back out to the road.

It took the better part of the morning and into the afternoon to complete a manual inspection of the entire area. They took their time, moving methodically street by street, nosing into every yard and alley they could reasonably dip into without calling attention to themselves. 

Still, they made no magical progress. Aside from the occasional street scuffle or drunkard hiccuping sparks, there was little that caught their attention. No painted business signs reading “Darkmoore and Sons,” no post left in or near a mailbox, no one gossiping or namedropping in the streets, and certainly nothing out of Sharp’s makeshift cane-cum-pendulum.

Despite their looming failure, all of this was hopefully buying Sharp time to consider the other part of the equation: the journal. He’d interrogated the witch on the topic numerous times, but she was of minimal help. The only journal she could remember was her father’s personal diary, and she hadn’t seen it since the funeral. When pressed on its contents, she sighed and said she didn’t know. She remembered seeing him write small passages about his daily life, and that was all. Certainly nothing obvious that she knew about.

It wasn’t much to go on, if anything, so he was tackling the other prong of the problem first. He only hoped it would prove fruitful.

Unfortunately for him, their journey led back to where they started, and they hadn’t managed to track their man. Sharp’s leg was dragging by the time they returned to the main thoroughfare, even with his cane. 

Jessamine, who had put herself in charge of pestering Sharp about the merits of Muggle detective work (and had gotten herself into several arguments, to their mutual mounting aggravation), had not missed his ginger steps and slower progress. She cleared her throat.

“Professor, do you need a moment? We could—”

He was shaking his head before the words were even out of her mouth.

“No, thank you.” He continued limping right past her.

“But—”

“No. Now come on. There’s something else we can try.”

Jessamine sighed. It took just two large steps to catch up to Sharp. 

“I’m not sure it’s the cane, Professor. The spell theory seemed sound. There must be some other reason this isn’t working.”

It felt like she rubbed salt into a wound he didn’t know he had. Immediately, Sharp was angry. At her or himself, he wasn’t sure. 

“Perhaps it’s the fact that I cannot concentrate with you nattering on about manual divination tactics you know nothing about,” he growled.

Jessamine bristled.

“I thought we were past this, Professor. I am only trying to help. I still think it might behoove us to try something a bit unorthodox, given that this entire situation is unorthodox.”

“What is unorthodox is your constant interference when you have nothing useful to contribute. Now please, just let me think.”

He almost stumbled when he tried to increase his pace. The witch felt her crossness reaching its peak.

“You might think better if you pulled your head out of your arse for more than one bloody minute! I thought you were the best of the best! But here we are, hours later and no closer to an answer, and you’re—”

“I’m what , Miss Blunt?” His face was stormy, his countenance darker than she thought she’d ever seen it. 

She swallowed against the tightness in her throat, continuing in a softer tone.

“I was going to say that you look just as tired as I am.”

He made a low noise in the back of his throat. There was something else in his voice, something she couldn’t put her finger on, and she felt something squeeze uncomfortably in her chest, even despite his rudeness.

“I do not need your pity, nor your help.”

Sharp didn’t mean to be so prickly, but between his own confusion, her constant reminders of his surprising inability to track one single person, and the pain in his leg, he felt frayed at the edges. 

Had it been too long? Had he really forgotten everything? 

Jessamine was about to argue the point further regardless of his agitation, when something across the thoroughfare caught her eye. She glanced back at Sharp. The pain was definitely weighing on him, but his attitude and inability to accept help was wearing on her.

Without a word, she crossed the street.

It took the wizard a moment of muttering to himself about “busybody witches” to realize his busybody witch had gone missing. He looked around, startled, before his eyes alighted on a familiar gray pinstripe suit disappearing through a door on the other side of the road. He groaned and considered just continuing on without her, before pivoting toward the simple shop front.

Sharp was assailed by the scent of rosehips and thyme as soon as he opened the cafe door. People were seated at small tables, and the dainty bohemian space buzzed with disparate pockets of chatter. A tea service whizzed by of its own accord, setting itself down neatly on a table by the window and distributing three mismatched china cups amongst the table’s occupants.

Well, at least she knew a wizarding establishment when she saw one.

The wizard scanned the room for Jessamine, spotting her honey-blond pompadour third from the front of the queue. He stormed over, his whisper sibilant against her ear.

“What in Godric’s name are you doing?!”

She looked up at him innocently, as if they hadn’t just been fighting minutes ago.

“Being patient. It’s a fascinating new trend, you should try it sometime.”

His hand tightened on his cane handle, fingers wrapping so tightly around the mental that his knuckles turned white. The line shifted, and he took an automatic step forward.

“If you’re going to walk away, then at least be discreet, for Merlin’s sake! Shilly-shallying in local eateries whilst you call attention to your presence is highly inadvisable.”

Patrons were starting to glance in their direction as his voice crackled with the effort of containing his vexation. Jessamine leaned closer, talking from the corner of her mouth, where an entirely false smile was fixed in place.

“Look. I know I said I would do things your way, but if you’re not going to let me help, and you do not want my help, then what is the point of my being here? I thought it best to just get out of your way. And, for the record, you’re the one currently drawing attention to us !”

Sharp’s blood boiled. He hardly noticed as the line moved forward again.

“That is utter foolishness! You wanted my help, and now you want to wash your hands of this whole business and make it someone else’s problem, simply because you didn’t get your way? It’s puerile and selfish. You are risking this entire excursion, and for what? Tea and pastries?!”

Jessamine was at the end of her rope. For the third time that day, she grabbed Sharp by the arm, intending to yank him down to her level and give him a piece of her mind in little more than a whisper. She was not expecting him to resist, and she ended up using his arm as leverage to draw herself up as tall as she could manage. They glared at each other.

“Yes, tea and pastries,” she snapped. “And you know what? Might as well add a few cucumber sandwiches, just to top it all off!”

“Excellent, and for you, sir?”

Witch and wizard snapped to attention so fast that Sharp was surprised they didn’t each have whiplash. A young brunette woman in a smart apron and glasses blinked at them owlishly from across the counter, where they now stood at the head of the line. Jessamine dropped down off her tiptoes, eyes suddenly glued to the floor. Her hand rested delicately in the crook of Sharp’s elbow. Neither seemed to notice it was still there. 

Sharp looked down at her, then back to the waitress. He heaved a sigh.

“Do you happen to have any blackcurrant pastries?”

It happened that the cafe did have blackcurrant pastries, a fact that made the whole situation slightly more bearable.

But only slightly.

The pair were seated at a table towards the back of the room. Jessamine absently picked at the edge of the doily that sat under their tea service. The cucumber sandwiches had vanished as quickly as they’d arrived, leaving them both feeling less agitated and more morose. 

Sharp, who had been staring into his teacup, shifted his attention to the witch across from him. For the briefest of moments, her green eyes flicked up to meet his, and he saw his own frustration and worry reflecting back. Jessamine quickly averted her gaze, glumly focused on the tattered lace under her fingers again. His arm tingled where those same fingers had rested scarcely an hour before. 

The witch tore her attention from the doily when something moved in front of her. A blackcurrant pastry was carefully pushed into her field of vision on a floral-patterned plate.

“There’s a hint of orange in there, I believe. It all pairs rather nicely together.”

She softened, offering him the smallest hint of a smile.

“Thank you. I love blackcurrants.” 

“I’ll take a blackcurrant jam over all others,” he said, leaning back and waiting for her impression of the sweet.

Jessamine took a small bite of the pastry. 

“It’s delicious. But I’m not sure about orange. I taste thyme, I think.”

Sharp nodded. 

“I think you’re probably right. My mistake.”

The tension that had built between them all day evaporated in an instant. Jessamine took another bite of Sharp’s peace offering. 

“I’m sorry, Professor. I shouldn’t have called your abilities into question. I just…I don’t understand why this isn’t working.”

Sharp crossed his arms, contemplative. Behind him, two men slid into open seats at another table. The rustling of a newspaper opening seemed at once too loud and very far away.

“Well, you may not be so far from the truth, I’m afraid. I have not performed any…activities…of this sort in many years. I admit, I am just as perplexed as you are. I should not be so quick to discourage new lines of thinking when I am at a loss. Especially from my partner.”

Jessamine chewed and swallowed slowly, unsure of what to say. Luckily, she didn’t have to say anything. Sharp continued on, talking as much to her as he was to himself. He worked through possible reasons why their divination had failed, none of them quite feeling like the right answer. His thoughts turned to Muggle detective work when all else eluded him. 

“Perhaps we should visit the post office, after all.”

“It's possible they're still open.” The witch dabbed at the corner of her lip with her napkin, then picked up her teacup to take a sip.

As she did, she happened to look over Sharp’s shoulder again, at the new occupants of the other table. The one with the newspaper was facing her, and had finally unfolded it. 

She almost dropped her teacup in surprise.

“I suppose our man might be using standard post or communicating by owl. Either way, there should be some record of his location,” the wizard was saying.

“Professor?”

“It was never my preference to Obliviate witnesses, simply because we so rarely had any, but it is something we could fall back on if questions arise.”

“Professor.”

“And then it would be a simple matter of locating that point. We could speak to neighbors, try to pose as visitors…perhaps there is someone else there who could let us in. Or there’s always less…acceptable measures, so to speak.”

“Professor!”

He startled, refocusing on the present.

“What?!”

“Look.” She motioned over his shoulder.

He shot her a quizzical glance before turning to see what the fuss was about.

In a heartbeat, his wand was in hand and he was summoning his own copy of the paper from the stack in the corner of the room. Unfolding it, he placed it in the center of the table. They both leaned across, foreheads nearly touching, to read the headlining story in bewilderment.

Local Wizard Killed In Tragic Accident!

Mr. Hamish Darkmoore, a longtime resident of wizarding Glasgow, was killed in a tragic magical incident this Saturday morning, outside his home. Details are currently being withheld from the public, but local aurors would like to assure all residents that this is a singular incident and they have no reason to be afraid.

Mr. Darkmoore had become a well-respected member of the community after a rocky start in life. Sources state he may have been involved in a handful of petty theft incidents as a young wizard, but these sources are as yet uncorroborated. He moved to Glasgow more than a decade ago, opening a small but lucrative business as an enchanted chandler.

Darkmoore leaves behind a husband, four children, and a sister, Marianne.

This story is currently developing. This article will update when more information is available. Please keep your paper to follow along.

Sharp let out the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. It appeared as though the pieces were slotting into place for Jessamine at the same time.

“Well, that explains a few things, at least.”

Chapter Text

Hello to my lovely followers and new readers alike!

I am in the process of revamping and finishing "The Ties That Bind Us." There will be changes to the way the story is presented, but there will not be any major plot revisions.

To my current readers: if you still wish to follow along, you will not need to go back and re-read the story, but please note that I will clean up some small plot holes here and there as I go.

Thanks for understanding, and looking forward to posting for you all again!

-Twinklefigs