Our Father's Sons // HP

Chapter Two

Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, enjoying a sugar quill as he wrote out a letter to the school governor's. They expected a report at the beginning of the year, detailing changes to the school and staff. And as Albus had to hire a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor every year, the letter was usually quite detailed.

He sighed, sucking on the quill. Quirinus Quirrell was an interesting candidate. He had previously been the Muggle Studies professor, but had gone off to follow his passions about a year previous. Albus had his suspicions about that, in truth. He knew Quirinus had always felt inadequate. He was a brilliant young man, but he had ambition enough for Slytherin.

He had returned a couple of months before the school year, responding to an ad in the Daily Prophet for a Defense teacher. He was certainly qualified, though Albus had been alarmed at how much the young man had changed. He had always had a stutter, but it seemed much worse now, and he was wearing a turban, a habit he had apparently picked up on his travels. Well, unusual fashions weren't so uncommon in the Wizarding World, Albus himself was testament to that, and who knew what he might have face to increase his stutter. Still, Albus thought something was off.

However, he was the only candidate that came forward, so Albus had little choice but to hire him. Quirinus had been delighted, naturally, and had sent in his lesson plan only just that day.

Albus was just writing down Quirinus' qualifications in his letter to the governor's when his door opened with a bang. He looked up, alarmed, to see it was his Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor, Minerva McGonagall. She looked outraged and alarmed.

"What is it Minerva?" he asked, dropping the sugar quill and half rising.

"The Potter's!" she said, half triumphantly, half hysterically. "I've just received a letter from their son!"

"Surely that isn't so unusual? It's time for young Adam to come to Hogwarts, surely."

"Not Adam, Headmaster. Harry."

Albus paled considerably, the taste of sugar on his lips souring.

"Ah."

"You told me he was a squib, Albus! You said it was for the best!"

"And so I did," he said, sighing heavily. "It seems I was mistaken."

"Mistaken! Mistaken! The boy has been raised by the worst sort of muggles, and that's all you have to say for yourself?"

"I and a team at St. Mungo's all believe that Harry lost his magic the night that Lord Voldemort attacked, Minerva," he said plaintively. "But if he received his letter, then we were very wrong."

"I should say so!"

"I never approved of James and Lily sending their son to her muggle relatives, you know that, Minerva. Disinheriting squibs is a barbaric practice, one I never thought of them. But I could do nothing to stop them, legally. And James made it quite clear that it wasn't any of my business."

Minerva gave a derisive snort at that.

"And since when do you listen?" she asked.

Albus smiled wearily.

"I do tend to nose into things, don't I? However, even I have my limits. When I pressed, James threatened to take action against me in the Wizengamot, a suit I would surely have lost, and none the better for young Harry."

Minerva sagged, her righteous fury draining out of her.

"I suppose you're right. The Wizengamot would have seen his right to do with a supposed squib child as he wished. But what now?"