Poison Ivy [Sirius Black]

IVY AND THE WEREWOLVES IN LONDON

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𝕚𝕧𝕪 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕨𝕠𝕝𝕧𝕖𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕕𝕠𝕟

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE'S ENTIRE LIFE had essentially been ruined by magic, been bettered by magic, and then ruined all over again. He would spend his days, toiling away in school, wondering why everything was so easy, wondering why everyone was so slow, and wondering what wondrous power he'd be able to achieve without any constrictions. All of those thoughts cost him everything. Perhaps the problem wasn't magic, perhaps it was him.

He had been less lenient on himself, diving into his teachings, and his other priorities. However, he hadn't taught a class in four years, not since 1969 when he officially became headmaster of Hogwarts, leaving the DADA position vacant, but bestowing a transfiguration professor even greater than himself. Of all the things he regretted, training Minerva McGonagall was most definitely not one of them.

In the late afternoon of 1972, he had been toiling away in mid-November, his normal administrative duties quite different from the passion he had as a professor. Instead of teaching, he was instead forced into locking himself away in his office, all day long until the moon rose in the sky. He told himself, often, that he'd grow to like it, that one day, he'd no longer miss standing in front of students and teaching them how to defend themselves. He'd no longer miss getting to know them or seeing the new generation learn, firsthand.

Currently, he was reading over the complaints of the new DADA professor, solidifying his idea that perhaps Tom had truly cursed the position. Dumbledore removed his spectacles at the thought, his migraine coming right back. He had found a new professor every year, and there had been stunning candidates, filled with qualifications that made them the optimal choice.

Sahid had been the previous, a professor with great knowledge in all manner of magical art. He, however, had been wounded, fatally by a Lethifold, an incredibly rare magical creature. It had been the death that solidified the danger of the position, and now, nobody of merit would apply. Albus ran his palm down his face, but glanced up at the knocking. He barely had a chance to compose himself when Minerva McGonagall entered with her usual pensive expression.