Having passed the test, Alaric Thorn was invited into the Headmaster's office to sign the necessary protocols.
As a side note, the password for the day was "Licorice Wand." It was a confection Alaric found utterly loathsome; he could never fathom why anyone would enjoy a sweet that tasted predominantly of damp earth. The office itself, however, carried a faint, cloying scent of sugar, likely due to the drawers beneath the desk being stuffed with every variety of candy imaginable.
Dumbledore motioned for Alaric to take a seat before producing a sheaf of parchment—the formal contract of employment.
"Do you remember your fifth year?" Dumbledore paused, looking as though he had stumbled onto a topic he shouldn't have broached. "Mmm... those were trying times. Perhaps I ought not to have brought it up."
Alaric offered a tight, somewhat awkward smile.
In truth, life rarely goes exactly as planned. During the height of Voldemort's power, no one within Hogwarts could truly remain a bystander, and Alaric had been no exception. Despite his careful efforts to remain a "wallflower" and avoid trouble, trouble had a way of seeking him out.
Alaric had been in his fifth year during the most brutal stretch of the First Wizarding War. It was during that time that the tranquility of his first four years was shattered. Voldemort's influence had permeated the school, transcending House boundaries. To an extent, the four Houses had achieved an unprecedented, if grim, unity: there were those who championed the Dark Lord, and then there was everyone else.
As a wizard of Muggle-born heritage, Alaric naturally belonged to the latter group. He had initially intended to stay clear of the brewing conflict, but the situation spiraled beyond his control. Despite his attempts to dodge the more fanatical blood-purists, he was eventually targeted. Being the top student of his year made him far too valuable—or threatening—a prize to ignore.
One Saturday afternoon, a large group of students, orchestrated primarily by those from Slytherin, cornered him near the north battlements. His only consolation at the time was that not a single Hufflepuff had been among the mob.
Coincidentally, Alaric had just completed the first successful mutation of his Devil's Snare.
By the end of that afternoon, a dozen students were found dangling from the castle's northern walls like rows of curing hams. After that, Alaric's life became remarkably quiet. No more black-robed students followed him through the corridors; the Dark Lord's sympathizers seemed to reach a unspoken consensus to leave him well enough alone. The incident had earned him his first private tea with the then-overworked Headmaster.
"It wasn't the most pleasant experience, I'll admit," Alaric said, his eyes scanning the document on the desk—his official appointment letter. "Where should I sign?"
"The bottom left, Alaric."
Alaric spun the quill once between his fingers before solemnly scrawling his name. As he laid the pen down, a strange sensation washed over him—a sudden, tethering connection to the ancient stones beneath his feet.
He looked up at Dumbledore, who gave him a paternal smile. "Welcome to the staff, Professor Thorn."
With the formal business concluded, Alaric felt the tension leave his shoulders.
"A lemon drop?" Dumbledore asked brightly, sliding open the top drawer of his desk to reveal a kaleidoscope of colorful wrappers. There seemed to be more variety here than in the entirety of Honeydukes.
Alaric shook his head, declining the Headmaster's offer. Dumbledore simply popped a piece of chocolate into his own mouth and gave his right hand a lazy wave. A teacup materialized in the air, drifting down to land softly in front of Alaric, steam rising from the fragrant amber liquid.
"We have plenty of time for a chat," Dumbledore noted, glancing at the clock on the wall.
Alaric was perfectly happy to converse with his new employer. Dumbledore took a slow sip of tea, his bright blue eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles as if sifting through a library of memories.
"Alaric, how is your sister faring these days?" he asked softly, his tone laced with genuine concern. "Is she well?"
At the question, Alaric's hand froze mid-air as he reached for his cup. His expression darkened. "She is still in a specialized hospital in the States. Her condition is... better than it was, but the lingering effects of the Cruciatus Curse are not so easily erased."
"Better, you say?"
"Yes. She regains consciousness occasionally, but it's as if she cannot see anything. She simply stares at the ceiling in silence."
Dumbledore's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, his voice turning comforting. "The marks left by the Dark Arts are notoriously difficult to heal. The Cruciatus, in particular, subjects the mind and body to an agony that leaves deep, jagged scars." He let out a heavy sigh. "But she is alive. In these times, that is a mercy in itself."
Alaric sighed inwardly. His sister had also been a student at Hogwarts. Tragically, due to a lapse in security during a Hogsmeade visit, she had been caught in the crossfire of a skirmish between the Order of the Phoenix and the Death Eaters. She had been struck by multiple Cruciatus Curses.
The date was exactly one day before Voldemort's downfall.
Fate had a cruel sense of irony. That attack remained a jagged shadow in Alaric's memory. If only he had reached the scene a few minutes faster, things might have been different. But "if" was a hollow word. Since that day, his sister had been in a prolonged state of neurological collapse, currently undergoing treatment at a private facility in America. Alaric's years of global travel following graduation had been fueled as much by the search for a cure as by his interest in magical botany.
Dumbledore remained silent for a moment, idly swirling the tea in his cup.
"I am truly sorry," he said suddenly.
"For what?" Alaric looked up.
"I failed to protect my student," Dumbledore said quietly, a note of self-reproach in his voice. "The safety of the children is my responsibility, yet war always demands a price from those who least deserve to pay it... I am deeply sorry."
Listening to him, Alaric lowered his gaze, his finger tracing the porcelain rim of his cup. "Your apology should be for my sister, Headmaster," he said, his voice low and steady. "I recall your guarantee that you would keep every student safe. It is quite clear, Headmaster, that you failed her."
Dumbledore hadn't expected such a sharp riposte. His hand tightened slightly on his cup, but he didn't argue. He simply stared into the swirling tea.
"Your anger is entirely justified, Alaric," he replied heavily. "I cannot deny it—I have indeed failed the trust of many."
The silence that followed was heavy. Alaric realized his words had been perhaps too blunt, fueled by a decade of suppressed resentment. After a few beats, he let out a slow breath, his posture softening.
"Forgive me, Headmaster. That was uncalled for... a moment of bitterness. You have done more than most ever could."
Dumbledore looked at him but said nothing.
That was a disastrous turn for a conversation, Alaric thought. He took a deep breath, forcing the emotions back into the quiet corners of his mind. He knew that pouring his spite onto the old man wouldn't change the reality of his sister's condition.
"I will find a way to heal her," Alaric said, his voice ringing with a cold, absolute certainty—a promise made to Dumbledore, but intended for himself. "I will."
Dumbledore watched him for a long moment before nodding solemnly. "I believe you will, Alaric."