“Ugh—” Apparition felt like being stretched into a single long noodle and then snapped back into shape.
Dumbledore stood a few paces away, already smoothing his sleeves as if the process had been nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
“I should have warned you.
The first time is rarely pleasant.
It improves with practice.” He smiled.
“Welcome to Hogwarts.” Styx followed him through the castle, taking in everything the films had never quite captured.
Moving portraits whispered as they passed.
Staircases rearranged themselves mid-step.
Candles floated without chains.
Far ahead, the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall glittered with stars.
Knowing the place from screens was one thing.
Standing inside it was another.
Portraits along one corridor started a quiet commentary.
“New professor?” “So young?” “That hair is rather striking.” “Dumbledore does still favor white.” Styx kept walking.
Dumbledore did the same.
At the stone gargoyle guarding the headmaster’s office, Dumbledore spoke clearly.
“Cockroach Clusters.” He glanced at Styx.
“Remember the password.
It changes monthly.
Someone will inform you of the new one.” The office was already full.
Every professor had gathered.
Dumbledore clapped once.
“Allow me to introduce you.
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress, Head of Gryffindor, Transfiguration.” McGonagall gave a crisp nod.
“Severus Snape.” Dumbledore indicated the man in black whose expression made it clear he would rather be anywhere else.
“Head of Slytherin, Potions.” Snape’s gaze was cold.
“I hope the new colleague proves marginally more functional than Quirrell.” In the corner, Quirrell blinked in mild offense.
“Filius Flitwick, Charms.” The small wizard waved cheerfully.
“Pomona Sprout, Herbology.” “Hello, child.” Her voice was warm.
“Quirinus Quirrell, Defense Against the Dark Arts.” “Y-yes… hello…” Quirrell managed, as if every syllable cost him air.
“And this,” Dumbledore said, nodding toward the ghost still reading parchment in mid-air, “is Cuthbert Binns, History of Magic.” Binns did not look up.
Dumbledore turned back to the room.
“This is Lethean Styx, newly appointed Professor of Dark Arts Practical.” Styx inclined his head.
“I look forward to working with all of you.” McGonagall spoke first.
“Welcome, Professor Styx.
I expect we shall get along well.
Come with me.
I’ll go over salary, benefits, duties, and show you to your rooms.” She led the way.
Styx nodded once to Dumbledore and followed.
When the others had gone, only Snape and Dumbledore remained.
Snape did not waste time.
“Albus.
You refuse to give me Defense, yet you keep that garlic-reeking stammerer in the post—” “Severus—” “And now you’ve dragged in another one.” Snape dropped into a chair opposite the desk, black robes spreading behind him.
“A dark wizard pulled out of some unmarked grave.
Your judgment of people remains as defective as ever.” Dumbledore’s smile turned mild and unreadable.
“Are you concerned for the safety of the school, or for one particular student?” Snape’s hand tightened on the armrest.
“I’m concerned that when your soft heart produces a few extra corpses, the Ministry will send that pink toad Umbridge—or Fudge himself—to take over.” “I will protect Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly.
“That’s your affair.” Snape stood.
At the door he paused without turning.
“Try not to let the new Practical professor die faster than Quirrell.” The door slammed.
Dumbledore’s smile stayed fixed for a moment longer, then faded.
The portraits of previous headmasters sighed softly on the walls.
Elsewhere, McGonagall walked at a brisk pace, occasionally glancing back to deliver information.
“Base salary for professors is eight hundred Galleons a month.
Given the nature of your subject, the Headmaster has approved an additional danger allowance of two hundred.
One thousand total.” Styx did the quick conversion.
Roughly five thousand pounds in 1991 money.
Respectable.
“Free accommodation as well,” she continued.
“Each professor has a private sitting room and bedroom.
You may furnish them as you like.
Meals are taken at the staff table in the Great Hall.
The house-elves are excellent.” “Convenient.
I haven’t eaten since morning.” “Term has not begun.
You may call a house-elf to your rooms for dinner.
As for the timetable—Dark Arts Practical is a core subject.
Every year from first to seventh will have at least one two-hour class each week.
Submit your syllabus before term starts.
I’ll review it.” She adjusted her glasses.
“Because of the practical element, you will not use a standard classroom.
The Headmaster has granted you the vacant room on the fifth floor and a clearing at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.” Styx raised an eyebrow.
The Forest as well.
More latitude than expected.
“Additional duties,” McGonagall went on.
“Corridor patrol twice a week on rotation.
Monthly prefect meetings.
Occasional House Cup scoring.
You may award or deduct points in class under your own standards, provided they remain reasonable.
Faculty meetings are every Friday evening in the Headmaster’s office.
Attendance is required.” They stopped before a wooden door on the third floor.
McGonagall’s wand unlocked it.
“Your quarters.
Keys are here.
My office is beside the Transfiguration classroom if you need anything.” “Thank you.” Styx took the keys and stepped inside.
A wide sitting room, fire already burning, desk under a window that looked straight onto the Black Lake and the Forbidden Forest.
Bedroom to the right, study to the left.
McGonagall watched his expression for a moment, then allowed a small, genuine smile.
“Welcome to Hogwarts, Professor Styx.” She left at the same brisk pace that suggested Dumbledore had handed her every remaining detail.
Styx closed the door, made a quick circuit of the rooms, then sat at the desk and called for a house-elf.
A small figure in a ragged tea towel appeared at once.
“What would the respected Professor like for dinner?” “Medium-rare steak, two eggs sunny-side up, two chicken legs, all the sides, heavy on the gravy.
And a glass of orange juice, please.” The elf’s ears lifted.
“You are far too polite, Professor!
No need for such manners with us.
One moment!” A snap of fingers, and the meal arrived steaming.
The steak still sizzled at the edges.
Styx cut a piece, dragged it through the unbroken yolk, and ate without further ceremony.
Hunger made short work of restraint.
Only when the plate was clean did he open the system.
[Quest complete: Join Hogwarts as a professor.] [Rewards: Random Evil Spirit Summon Card ×1, 10,000 Evil God Points.] “Use the card.” [Congratulations.
Obtained: Art the Clown — Terrifier.] Another immortal.
Same category as Jason.
Not truly unkillable, but close enough that nothing in the current world was likely to finish either of them.
“Summon Art and Jason.” They appeared side by side.
On the left stood a clown in stark black-and-white, face painted into a permanent, unsettling grin.
One hand held a black bag; the other offered a cheerful little wave that somehow made the room colder.
On the right, Jason Voorhees—tall, solid, hockey mask, machete in hand—stood like a statue.
Art took one look at Jason, performed an exaggerated double-take, and scuttled behind Styx as if the larger figure might suddenly remember how to move.
When Jason remained motionless, Art crept forward again.
He poked the broad back, patted the shoulder, tried to lift the machete, then reached for the mask.
Jason’s boot connected.
Art flew backward, tumbled, and scrambled back into place with the air of a scolded child, suddenly perfectly still.
Styx watched the entire silent comedy without comment.
The system had left their minds intact.
Both were fully conscious.
Both were also, for the moment, completely obedient.
That was the only reason the room stayed quiet.