JohnnyZ
patreon
Harry Potter and the Right Teacher (Sneak Peek)
🕑 Added 2024-12-06 18:58:10 +0000 UTCFandom: Harry Potter X Elder Scrolls Morrowind (minor crossover)
Original: "Гарри Поттер и Правильный Учитель" by Саггаро Гиерри
Status: Ongoing (36 chapters; 1 ch/week)
Synopsis: Hogwarts has eternal problems with teachers. Sometimes they are possessed by ghosts, sometimes they are completely unfit for the job, sometimes they are even werewolves... But what if the school gets lucky at least once?
Translator Notes: This is a self-contained second book in a series about a transmigrated protagonist. The first book takes place in Morrowind, while this sequel brings the MC to the world of Harry Potter.
The following sneak peek includes excerpts from Chapters 5 and 6.
___________________________________________
A Professor is Someone Who Accidentally Ended Up at a University
...and couldn’t find their way out.
(Popular saying)
_______________________________________________
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Headmaster’s Office.
Not this one… not this one either…
Albus Dumbledore irritably skimmed through yet another résumé and tossed it aside. This year’s search for a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was proving particularly exasperating. A particularly dark thought crossed his mind—cruel in its simplicity and, he wasn’t sure, directed at himself or someone else. Find Tom Riddle, capture him, and force him to deal with his own “little joke” of cursing the position. Hadn’t he once wanted to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts? Fine—let him have it! Sit down and teach, Tom! And heaven help you if even one of your classes doesn’t pass their exams by year’s end!
But as satisfying as that idea sounded, the Hogwarts Board of Governors would never approve of Voldemort joining the teaching staff at a school where their children studied. And Dumbledore couldn’t ignore the likely psychological damage to said children... not to mention the other staff members. No, the idea was brilliant in theory—if only it weren’t so terrible in practice.
Which is why the Headmaster now sat sifting through a mountain of résumés, hoping, praying, to find at least one that didn’t make him want to toss it straight into the fire.
The trouble with hiring in magical Britain, Dumbledore admitted to himself, was that the overwhelming majority of potential candidates had graduated from Hogwarts itself. And though he took immense pride in the school, the wizard was honest enough to admit that very few alumni were actually qualified to teach. Sure, they were skilled witches and wizards, knowledgeable in their fields, but as teachers…
By Merlin’s underpants! Even Alastor Moody shouldn’t be let near children with a ten-foot wand! And if it weren’t for the pressing need and the Triwizard Tournament this year, Dumbledore wouldn’t have bothered trying to rope him into the role. Snape was already quite enough—the perfect example of someone whose expertise in his subject didn’t translate to good teaching skills. And yet, if not for Snape’s… “additional duties,” Dumbledore wouldn’t have let him within a mile of Hogwarts, let alone into the classroom or as Head of House.
With a weary sigh, Dumbledore scanned yet another letter of application. This one, too, dashed his hopes. He placed it atop the growing pile of rejects. One letter remained. If it turned out to be another disappointment, this year would be one of the most difficult in Hogwarts’ history.
A sharp, ringing tap broke the silence, drawing Dumbledore’s attention to the window. He looked over, startled. The sound repeated, coming from one of the closed panes. Fawkes, the phoenix perched nearby, peeked out from under his wing, sharing a curious glance with his master. With a groan, Dumbledore rose, adjusted his robes, and shuffled toward the window.
Albus was many things—wise, powerful, enigmatic—but alone in his office, he let himself be what he truly was: an old man, over a century of age. Though magic kept him spry, even the strongest wizard couldn’t escape time entirely.
“Let’s see what we have here…”
Drawing his wand, Dumbledore unlatched the window with a flick. What he saw made his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
Perched on the windowsill was a large, semi-transparent raven. The bird radiated an air of calm dignity, clutching a leather postal tube in its talons.
The raven tilted its head, fixing one eye on the Headmaster, as though assessing him. Dumbledore couldn’t shake the feeling that it was inspecting something deeper than his appearance. Finally, the bird gave a raspy caw and extended the tube.
“A letter for me?” Dumbledore asked.
The raven nodded solemnly, its gaze darting briefly to Fawkes, who watched the visitor with equal interest. Something about the bird seemed… off. For a moment, Dumbledore thought it might be a corporeal Patronus, but no—Patronuses didn’t interact with physical objects, and the tube was clearly real. Besides, no one had ever used a Patronus as mail delivery, had they?
Another caw drew his attention back. He took the tube, and as soon as the raven released it, the bird flapped its wings, glided into the office, and settled on a bookshelf. It seemed intent on waiting for a reply.
Dumbledore unrolled the letter.
_______________________________________________________
To Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,
Greetings.
I hope this letter finds you well.
I recently heard that your school has a vacancy on the teaching staff for the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. While I am not a Hogwarts alumnus—having studied in a different country entirely—rumors have a way of traveling far and fast.
Among other things, I have heard that the aforementioned position is considered cursed by the vast majority of Hogwarts alumni, which allegedly explains the frequent troubles with those who hold it. While I find this claim highly dubious, given the impossibility of cursing something without a tangible basis, I have encountered numerous diverse curses and hexes in the course of my professional duties as a curse breaker (a copy of my certification is attached to this letter). Thus, this rumor does not deter me from offering my services.
I sincerely hope you will consider my candidacy for a teaching position at your esteemed school. I am ready to answer any additional questions, should you have them. You may send your reply with the raven that delivered this letter—it will wait as long as necessary.
Sincerely,
Avalor Khan
_________________________________________
Dumbledore read the letter once, then twice. He understood the words perfectly, yet somehow still felt he understood nothing.
Who was this Avalor Khan? The name rang no bells. But Avalor had stated plainly that he hadn’t studied in Britain. That, at least, made sense—Hogwarts was hardly the only magical school in the world.
Setting the letter aside, Dumbledore picked up the attached certificate. It seemed authentic, bearing all the proper seals and signatures from Gringotts. Curse Breakers, after all, were highly trained professionals skilled in everything from numerology to ancient runes, and much more besides. But why would someone with such a profession want to teach at a school?
Leaning back in his chair, Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. The risk was minimal—especially given the current… “quality” of other candidates. And while Avalor’s teaching ability was a mystery, this year, that was the least of the Headmaster’s concerns. After all, with the Triwizard Tournament looming, most students would hardly be focusing on their studies anyway.
Dumbledore dipped his quill into ink and penned a short reply, inviting Avalor to meet at a café in Hogsmeade for an interview. If nothing else, seeing the man in person might provide some insight.
Rolling the letter into the tube, he handed it to the waiting raven.
“Please deliver this to your master,” he said.
The bird studied the tube, then took it carefully in its talons. With a final caw, it spread its ghostly wings and soared out the window, vanishing into the night.
All that remained were faint scratches on the bookshelf and windowsill—silent proof of its visit.
_________________________________________
Albus Dumbledore set aside a small stack of parchment, suppressing the strong urge to toss the bureaucratic nonsense into the fireplace. He removed his half-moon spectacles, rubbed his tired eyes, and stretched with a satisfying crack from his joints. It was time for the scheduled interview, and the headmaster sincerely hoped that the wizard who called himself Avalor would be a suitable candidate. Filling the perpetual vacancy in Hogwarts' teaching staff had become a wearying task.
Still, Albus was a man who had learned to find joy in life’s little moments. He resolved to savor the upcoming hour as a reprieve from the soul-draining monotony of administrative work. Sliding his glasses back onto his nose, he smoothed the creases of his robe and rose from his chair.
“Fawkes, my friend,” he murmured, stroking the phoenix’s resplendent feathers, which glimmered like molten gold and radiated warmth. “Would you be so kind as to take me to Madam Rosmerta’s establishment?”
The phoenix cocked its head quizzically and trilled softly.
“No, I’ll walk back myself,” Dumbledore chuckled. “A little stroll from Hogsmeade will do me good.”
Fawkes gave the wizard a playful nip on the hand before leaping from his perch. With a flash of fiery brilliance, the bird enveloped them both in light. A heartbeat later, a similar flash illuminated the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade, depositing the silver-haired headmaster opposite the Three Broomsticks.
Dumbledore scratched Fawkes under the beak appreciatively, watching as the phoenix beat its wings and soared back toward Hogwarts. Adjusting his robe, he stepped through the pub’s door precisely ten seconds before noon—the time he had arranged to meet the prospective new professor.
He stopped short, his eyes falling on the occupant of his usual corner table. Or rather… the thing seated there.
Dumbledore’s infamous glasses, the subject of much speculation and rumor, were more than ordinary eyewear. Though many assumed they were for reading or farsightedness, their true purpose was magical: they allowed him to perceive enchantments and, with effort, see through illusions. Powerful spells or ancient artifacts could obscure their vision, but over the years, the glasses had proven invaluable.
Now, through these enchanted lenses, Dumbledore saw not a man but a figure cloaked in a shimmering haze, like heat rising from hot stone. Even distorted, the details that emerged were unsettling—dark, almost black skin; eyes glowing like smoldering embers; and… long, pointed ears?
To his naked eye, the figure appeared to be a dignified young man in an impeccably tailored Muggle suit, sipping tea with a relaxed demeanor. The other patrons in the pub seemed entirely oblivious, treating the stranger as unremarkable.
The figure—Avalor, presumably—noticed Dumbledore immediately. Setting his teacup down with deliberate care, he stood, bowing politely and gesturing to the seat opposite him. The gesture was smooth, confident, and… calculating.
Forcing himself to regain composure, Dumbledore approached with measured steps, his mind racing. This creature, whatever it truly was, seemed straight out of ancient lore—something he had long assumed relegated to the pages of forbidden tomes and the whispers of old tales. Yet here it sat, in the Three Broomsticks, applying for a teaching position.
“Good day to you, Headmaster,” the stranger greeted with a smile.
“Mister… Khan?” Dumbledore ventured, uncertain.
“The very same.” Avalor nodded smoothly. “I trust you don’t mind that I chose this spot? Madam Rosmerta mentioned it was your favorite.”
“Albus! Lovely to see you,” came Madam Rosmerta’s cheerful voice as she approached with a tray. “Something stronger today, or are you here on business?”
“Just tea, thank you,” Dumbledore replied with a faint smile, his tone still guarded. “Perhaps later, I’ll indulge in your famous mead.”
“Consider it done! Let me know if you need anything else, gentlemen.”
As Rosmerta walked away, the two men studied each other. Dumbledore’s piercing gaze sought answers to unspoken questions, while Avalor’s glowing eyes, barely concealed beneath his illusion, flicked briefly toward the headmaster’s glasses with evident interest.
“Shall we get to the matter at hand, Headmaster?” Avalor broke the silence with a graceful wave toward the seat opposite him. “I wouldn’t want to take up more of your time than necessary.”
“Yes… that would be wise,” Dumbledore murmured, taking the offered seat. His fingers brushed the rim of his empty teacup as he regarded Avalor thoughtfully. “Perhaps you can start by explaining what prompted you to write me that letter. As I understand it, you are not… from around here.”
“I stated my reasons clearly in my correspondence,” Avalor replied, leaning forward slightly. “I heard about the perpetual vacancy in your school’s Defense Against the Dark Arts position. A ‘cursed post,’ they call it. The idea intrigued me—it seemed absurd, fascinating, and, above all, a mystery. And if I can help resolve your predicament in the process,” he shrugged, “consider it an added bonus.”
The words were measured, the tone disarmingly polite, yet there was an unmistakable edge beneath the surface.
Dumbledore hesitated, carefully extending a thread of Legilimency toward the mysterious figure. He needed to know more. Yet as his consciousness brushed against Avalor’s mind, he was abruptly drawn toward a staff leaning against the wall—a staff crowned with intricately carved human faces, their expressions frozen in agony, ecstasy, and fear. One set of wooden eyes flared to life, glowing faintly violet.
Reality dissolved around him.
He found himself in an alien world of colossal mushrooms growing like trees along riverbanks, a magnificent city floating on water, and winged serpents gliding through the skies. The vision shifted violently: the mushrooms turned yellow, dark tentacles stretched from the horizon, and the serpents dived to devour the fungal trees, the air thick with the pungent scent of… cheese?
“Enough.”
The commanding voice yanked Dumbledore back to the present. He was in the Three Broomsticks once more, heart pounding. Avalor now held the staff in both hands, his fingers firmly covering the glowing eyes.
“Who—what—are you?” Dumbledore demanded, his hand gripping his wand instinctively.
“You’re safe, Headmaster,” Avalor said calmly, his tone patient yet firm. “You’re still in Hogsmeade. What you saw… was far away. Perhaps even imaginary. There’s no need for violence.”
“You’re… not human,” Dumbledore murmured.
“An astute observation,” Avalor replied, unfazed. “But I thought you judged individuals by their actions, not their appearances.”
“I cannot allow someone I know nothing about to teach children.”
“Then ask your questions,” Avalor said simply, pouring himself more tea. “I will answer what I can.”
“Let’s start with…”
