McGonagall stormed into the Headmaster’s office and found Albus Dumbledore happily working his way through a pile of Cockroach Clusters.
“Oh, Albus!” The sight stopped every word she’d planned to say.
The portraits of former headmasters on the walls exchanged knowing glances, then quietly slipped out of their frames.
Only the occasional head peeking back over the edge proved they were still watching, waiting for Deputy Headmistress McGonagall to lay down the law.
‘We’ve been Team McGonagall for years!’ “Oh, Minerva.
I thought you’d still be busy with the new students.
Care to try one?” Only Dumbledore could stay this calm while facing an angry colleague.
He cheerfully pushed the box of questionable candy toward her.
McGonagall ignored the wriggling sweets and went straight to the point.
“Albus, have we found a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for next term yet?” Thanks to Voldemort’s curse, the DADA position had become a yearly revolving door.
The more a teacher tried to stay longer than one year, the worse things got—lost limbs, mysterious illnesses, or outright death.
The pattern had become so reliable that Hogwarts now struggled to find anyone willing to take the post.
In McGonagall’s memory, Dumbledore had spent the entire holiday hunting for a new candidate.
At least, that’s what she’d assumed.
The relaxed way he was currently lounging suggested otherwise.
Had he really been hiding in his office eating sweets all summer while she ran herself ragged?
The thought made her fingers itch.
If he didn’t recognize her Animagus form, she was half-tempted to give him two good swipes.
Unfortunately they knew each other far too well.
Even an older cat lady had her pride.
Sensing danger, Dumbledore quickly closed the candy box and cleared his throat.
“Ahem.
As a matter of fact, I’ve already found our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.” “Oh?” McGonagall’s wand hand relaxed slightly.
“Our new professor will be… Quirinus.
Quirinus Quirrell.
You remember him, don’t you?” “Professor Quirrell?” McGonagall blinked.
That was not the name she’d expected.
“Wasn’t he teaching Muggle Studies before he left for Albania?” Quirrell had been one of her students—bright, book-smart, later a colleague.
She respected his knowledge.
But turning him into a Defense professor felt… thin.
Theory was one thing.
Surviving real dark magic was another.
“I recall he said he was going to Albania to gain some practical experience.” It was the quiet secret every British wizard understood.
Albania sat on the edge of the European magical world—basically lawless territory.
If you wanted real combat practice without immediately becoming a wanted dark wizard or getting shipped to Azkaban, Albania was the place to go.
“Yes.
During the holiday Quirinus contacted me and asked to teach Defense this year.
We could hardly turn away such an enthusiastic young man, could we?” McGonagall’s lips parted, then closed.
She had been about to remind him how he’d rejected a very young Tom Riddle for the same position years ago.
But something else clicked into place first.
If Quirrell had only reached out mid-holiday, that meant Dumbledore had been slacking for half the summer.
If he’d contacted him earlier… then the old man had coasted through the entire break.
A whole summer.
McGonagall’s hand twitched again.
Still, since Dumbledore clearly had time on his hands… “Albus, there’s something you need to know.” She handed him a piece of parchment.
Written on it was a name and an address.
Isaac Waldore.
12 Medway Street, Hampstead Garden Suburb, London.
Dumbledore recognized the handwriting and the source immediately—the acceptance letter McGonagall had signed.
He raised an eyebrow.
Was she volunteering him for extra house calls at his age?
“I visited Miss Granger’s home today,” McGonagall continued.
“She told me something interesting.
She met Mr.
Waldore before I arrived.
He gave her a prophecy.” “Oh?” Dumbledore’s eyes lit with genuine interest.
Prophecy.
Now that was a word that brought back memories.
“And Miss Granger also mentioned that Mr.
Waldore doesn’t just make prophecies.
He has short platinum-blonde hair.
And a pair of mismatched eyes.”