I spend the next few hours talking with Dumbledore — or as I still prefer to think of him, Little Albus.He's remarkably patient, answering every question I throw his way, no matter how strange or outdated it sounds.
Apparently, wizards now rely on something called "Muggle technology" more than I ever imagined. Electricity. Televisions. Computers. (That one makes me laugh internally — the thing that killed me the first time around.) The Ministry has changed too; the old divisions of pure‑blood power have faded, though not disappeared. The Wizarding World is still as chaotic and political as ever. Some things never change.
By the time he's finished filling me in, my head is spinning — and not from the potions. I've missed a century of progress, yet Hogwarts still feels like the same timeless heartbeat of magic I remember.
Then Albus tilts his head, his tone light but curious."So, Senior Potter… what will you do now?"
That question makes me freeze.
What will I do now?
Originally, I was so excited just to go to Hogwarts — to learn magic, to explore, to live the fantasy I'd always dreamed of. But once I got here, everything spiraled: goblins, ancient magic, prophecies, corrupted energy, and a century trapped in a crystal.
Now I'm free, but for the first time, I have no plan.
I stare at my hands for a long moment before speaking."Well… I did enjoy my professors," I admit slowly. "Even when they drove me mad with homework. Teaching was… fulfilling. Maybe I could be one myself."
Dumbledore's eyebrows rise. "A professor, you say? You do realize, by Hogwarts' records, you're technically seventeen. Hardly the standard age for staff employment."
I snort. "Please. I'm older than you are, Albus. Chronologically and, dare I say, magically. I doubt any of your current professors could last ten seconds against me in a duel."
His eyes twinkle with amusement. "I see your confidence has survived the century intact."
"It's called factual observation," I reply sweetly. "Besides, what else am I supposed to do? Hide away and knit socks?"
He chuckles. "You sound like Professor McGonagall already."
I lean forward, smirking. "So? What do you say? Let me teach."
Dumbledore hums, clearly enjoying himself far too much. "You realize the Defence Against the Dark Arts post is… cursed. No one keeps it for more than a year."
I wave a hand dismissively. "I've absorbed corrupted ancient magic, fought a goblin dragon, and survived being frozen for a century. I think I can handle a little curse."
He looks thoughtful — but I can see that tiny spark of mischief behind his calm expression. He's teasing me.
"All right, Albus," I say, folding my arms. "If you don't let me teach, I will tell everyone about the time you tried to transfigure your shoes and ended up turning them into live rabbits. Both of which ran off with your homework."
His composure cracks for a fraction of a second."That was over a hundred years ago."
"Ah, but the story's timeless."
He sighs — the long‑suffering sigh of a man who knows he's beaten. "Very well, Senior Potter. You may take the Defence Against the Dark Arts position for the remainder of this year. But do try not to cause too much trouble."
I grin, stretching my arms for the first time in what feels like forever. "No promises."
"Of course not," he murmurs, smiling faintly. "It wouldn't be you otherwise."