Chapter Text
Dawlish sat at dinner that evening between Snape and Grubbly-Plank. Grubbly-Plank was talking to the Arithmancy professor, Septima Vector, and Snape was again disinclined to speak, which suited Dawlish perfectly.
His dilemma had not gotten any better after hearing what Granger had to say. If anything it was the opposite, because he was left with another question: why hadn't Potter's story been properly investigated? Had Fudge interfered, or Madam Bones? Had Dumbledore? And if so, why?
He ate his beef stew almost mechanically as he thought. Granger was right, he had to revisit what he thought he knew.
If Dawlish had heard Potter's story in a vacuum, without the bad press, without the whispers of gossip around the Ministry, would he have immediately thought Potter mad? Not likely. He had thought rather highly of Potter before Skeeter's stories. But then Potter's wild tale had come to light, and he had thought—well, that surely it had been investigated, and given that nothing had come of it, that it had to be false.
That assumption had been wrong. Now, well, now he didn't know what to think.
"Snape," he said suddenly.
Snape didn't even startle, just turned to him, one unimpressed eyebrow raised.
"You've known Potter for some years now."
"Unfortunately."
"Er, right. So, er." He floundered for a moment, not sure how to ask the question now that he had Snape's attention. "What do you think about what the papers have said about him?"
Snape took a sharp breath, opened his mouth, then checked himself. He slowly pulled his wand, made a small circular motion, and slid it away.
The background noise of the Great Hall faded into a low buzz. Some sort of silencing or muffling spell then. Dawlish wasn't familiar with this one.
"Potter is an arrogant, attention-seeking brat," Snape said harshly. "He wouldn't think twice about putting himself or other students in harm's way just for the sake of a laugh. He's exactly like his father."
"Oh, er." That was all a bit startling, not to mention worryingly vitriolic coming from a professor who was meant to be teaching the lad. "I meant more about his truthfulness."
Snape sneered. "Potter wouldn't hesitate to lie to get himself or his friends out of trouble, on any school-related matter."
"Interesting wording. Only about school-related matters?"
Snape looked as though he'd bitten something sour.
"Would he lie about You-Know-Who?"
Snape's sour look intensified, but he finally bit out, "He would not. On the matter of the Dark Lord... Potter has never once, to my knowledge, lied."
He sounded very certain, which was startling in an entirely different way. "So you believe him?" And from someone who clearly hated Potter, that was quite an endorsement.
Snape made an involuntary twitch, his right hand moving toward his left arm and then back. "I have—my own sources."
"From the war."
"Just so. My sources—and myself—are firmly convinced, independent of Potter's testimony, that the Dark Lord has returned."
"Oh," said Dawlish, feeling rather faint.
Snape turned away and lifted his muffling spell, clearly done with the conversation. He looked at his plate, then simply stood from the table and strode briskly away, robe swirling dramatically behind him.
Dumbledore looked over in curiosity.
Dawlish looked back at his own food. He certainly didn't want Dumbledore's attention. Not after that revelation. He tried to settle his breathing. So Potter was truthful. Potter's tale of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's return was real.
He poked at his stew with a fork.
Potter was truthful. Which meant—actually, now that he thought of it, Potter's honesty didn't matter for his immediate problem. No, the heart of the matter was that Umbridge wanted Dawlish to torture Potter. Did Potter deserve torture if his story was true and he hadn't done anything wrong? Certainly not. Did he deserve torture if his story was false and he was spreading fear for no good reason? Still no. The very idea was abhorrent to Dawlish.
And so it didn't matter. He didn't have to think about what he'd just learned from Snape, not right now—though that couldn't last forever. But for the moment, for right now—he needed clear thought.
Which brought him back to the question of Madam Bones.
His eyes drifted to the Hufflepuff table. It was odd to see little Susie as a teenager now. Hard to believe she was no longer an apple-cheeked five year old running around the Auror Office. The thought made him feel old.
Well, he wasn't going to be asking her any questions. If he did he would have to involve Pomona rather than Professor McGonagall, of course, but the thought still made him shudder involuntarily.
He wasn't going to get any more insight into Madam Bones just from thinking about it, not with his thoughts still spinning like this. He needed outside advice. But there he ran into the same problem. There were people in the Auror Office he considered mentors, but outside of Shacklebolt, still unavailable, they were all going to tell him to report to Scrimgeour, and might even do so themselves, defeating the whole point of asking them for advice. He didn't have a husband or wife or even a significant other, and most of his friends were go-down-the-pub sorts—the type you moaned about the Catapults over firewhiskey with, not the type you sat down with to ask for serious advice about ethical quandaries or even your career.
"That looked like a serious conversation." Pomona sat down in Snape's vacant seat with a small huff. "Is everything all right?"
"Oh! I'm fine, I just—"
"You look like you're thinking deep and dreary thoughts. Penny for them?"
He could've cried. Pomona was exactly the sort of person he needed to talk to. He seized the moment. "Honestly, I could—I could really use your advice," he said. "Hufflepuff to Hufflepuff. On a serious matter." He glanced over at Dumbledore, who he was fairly sure was paying attention to the conversation, despite not looking in their direction. "Maybe not the sort of discussion for dinner in the Great Hall?"
"Ah, serious advice," said Pomona with a sigh. "Well not to worry, I'm game." She thought for a moment. "I'll tell you what. I'm free after classes tomorrow. Shall we say the Three Broomsticks down in Hogsmeade? Butterbeer, I think, to start. My treat."
"My treat, surely," said Dawlish. "As I'm the one asking for advice."
"Good man," she said, and clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll see you then." She shoved herself up from her seat, and with a wave to Flitwick, who she'd been conversing with previously, headed out of the Great Hall.
Flitwick gave him a curious glance, but looked away. Flitwick took a last sip from his pumpkin juice before standing up himself.
It was about that time. Dawlish should—wait. He looked back to Flitwick, ambling his way out of the Great Hall. The advice he'd be asking from Pomona wasn't the only sort of advice he needed. The Ministry weren't the only players here, after all, and he was in murky legal waters when it came to the dverger.
He shoved his chair back and hurried after Flitwick, catching him in the corridor outside the Great Hall. "Excuse me, Flitwick?"
"Yes, did you need something?" Flitwick turned to him, looking as cheerful as ever.
"I, ah, wonder if I might ask some advice from you. On a matter of dverger law. A, er, hypothetical question. On behalf of a friend of mine."
Flitwick's cheerfulness was gone in an instant, replaced by an intent focus. "I can't promise to be able to give you an answer," he said. "I'm part-dverger, as you clearly know, and I'm acknowledged by my clan, which is more than many part-dverger can say. But I'm not a full member. If what you need is a matter for the Council of Clans, I may not be able to help you."
"It's, well, it's not like that, exactly. It's—" Dawlish bit his lip. "I think I might need to be a bit vague."
"Yes, that much was clear from the hypothetical for a friend," said Flitwick drily. He looked narrowly at Dawlish a long moment, before coming to some decision. "Very well. This isn't a conversation for corridors. Follow me to my office, we can have some privacy. Though I should warn you now that hypotheticals and asking for a friend will not shield you. Depending on what you ask me, I may be required to report the conversation to my clan representative. Tread carefully."
"I understand," said Dawlish, mouth a bit dry. He needed the advice Flitwick could provide too badly to let that possibility stop him. If Flitwick reported him, well. He'd had the quill for less than a day, and was trying his best to do due diligence on the required next step. He would have to hope that it at least counted for something with Flitwick, if not the dverger Council of Clans.
Dawlish sat at the corner table in the Three Broomsticks, nursing his butterbeer. He'd been tempted to order something stronger, but Pomona had been very clear—butterbeer to start—and he was going to stick to it.
Flitwick's expertise on dverger law had been both broad and useful, but Dawlish had spent a sleepless night after speaking to him, tossing and turning and thinking.
At least it had kept him from thinking about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
Dverger law was stringent—he only had a limited time to report to the dverger on what he'd been given before he would be considered complicit in a high crime. The longer he waited, the worse it would be for him. If he kept waiting—well, actually, he might well get away with it. Umbridge clearly had. And she'd be here within the next month or so, at which point he could hand the damned quill over and be done with it.
Except he had to consider Flitwick. Flitwick hadn't said anything after that initial warning, and Dawlish had danced around what, exactly, it was that he had in his possession—but Flitwick could read between the lines. If Flitwick reported to his clan representative and Dawlish took no action, he might have a rough go of it.
He would likely have to follow Flitwick's recommendation and owl the contact Flitwick had provided. Which really only added a time factor to the problem of how to handle the matter with the Ministry.
The dverger could and would exert outside pressure to make sure an investigation didn't get railroaded, but they couldn't start an investigation themselves. Which meant he was back to his original dilemma—could he trust anyone in the Auror Office to actually begin an investigation? And what would it mean for his career either way?
"Evening," said Pomona, sitting down. "Already back into the deep and dreary thoughts, I see." She waved to Rosmerta, and a butterbeer appeared before her in short order.
Dawlish didn't say anything. Now that she was here he wasn't quite sure where to begin.
"My Puffs adore you," said Pomona, taking a swig. "Especially the first years. They rather think you're a hero."
He snorted, and took a drink from his butterbeer. "I suppose it's because I gave them all points the first day."
"Oh? All of them?"
"I was late to class, and the first year Claws decided that meant they could leave. I arrived to find only the little Puffs, gathered around in a circle and getting to know each other."
Pomona laughed, then raised her butterbeer. "To Hufflepuff," she said.
"To Hufflepuff," he echoed, raising his own. They drank.
"I don't think it's the points," said Pomona. "They just think you're a good teacher."
"No idea where they got that notion."
"Hmm."
They were silent for a moment. "It's not being a teacher, really, that's bothering me right now. It's, well—"
"Take your time."
He did. He looked down at the pub table, waxed oak, scratched and worn. He heard murmurs of conversation around them, felt the draft of cold air as the door opened and closed. He took a swig of his butterbeer, let the flavor roll across his tongue. And when he was ready, he spoke. "I'm not one of those exciting aurors," he said.
Pomona made a small noise of disagreement.
"I'm not! I'm not Shacklebolt or Moody. I'm not an experienced old warrior like them, and I'm certainly not one of those talented young hot-shots you send out after active dark wizards." He took a deep breath. "But I don't want to be mediocre either. I want to be a Hufflepuff auror, and to me that means reliable. Doing the background work, making sure things get done. But—I also want to be a decent man. Does that make sense?"
"An ethical dilemma, then."
"Exactly. I'm an auror. I work for the Ministry, I serve the Ministry. But there are individuals within the Ministry who are, er, targeting an innocent—oh bloody hell." He pulled his wand and cast an auror-grade silencing ward. "Sorry. But it's ridiculous to talk around it. Umbridge is targeting Potter. Fudge, too, probably. I can't be sure that Madam Bones isn't in on it. And even if Potter was lying about the return of You-Know-Who, it's unwarranted. It's mad. And I don't know what to do next."
Pomona let that sit for a moment. "Have you considered approaching this as a professor instead of an auror?"
"Oh, I've already done that. I scrapped Umbridge's ridiculous lesson plans on day one."
She laughed, deep and long. "I had wondered why you were running auror drills in class. It didn't seem in keeping with Umbridge's reputation. Wonderful."
"It's not a general uncertainty of what to do, but a specific one. I—"
She waited calmly, hands folded in her lap, head tilted in a listening posture.
It calmed him. "I might be able to implicate at least Umbridge in a fairly serious crime," he said quietly. "And very likely more than one. But I can't get an official investigation started without going through someone in the Auror Office, and I'm not sure who I can trust."
Pomona nodded, then said, "Even if you aren't sure, who do you believe to be the best option?"
"Madam Bones."
"Hmm." She looked out over the pub clientele, their conversations entirely muted by his ward. "Susan Bones is a very good sort of girl."
"What?"
"The Sorting Hat says that Hufflepuff values loyalty and hard work, and that's true," she said. "But I've always believed that the best Hufflepuff trait is being dependable. It's more difficult to teach than hard work or even loyalty, but some of our graduates, the best of us, have it in spades. Susan will be one of those. Dependable, solid, the sort of young woman others can lean on when they're in need, and know that she'll hold them up until they can stand on their own. Susan will be one, just as her aunt was."
Dawlish took a long, shuddering breath. It was what he wanted to believe, but—
"Let me ask you something, John. What's the worst that could happen, if you trust the wrong person with this investigation?"
"The whole thing would be swept under the rug," he said. "And I'd lose my job." Although—if it reached that point, if he was already sacked, he had nothing to lose. It wouldn't be easy, with the Prophet firmly in the pocket of Fudge, but he could make public what had happened, maybe with some help from the dverger. It wasn't impossible that public pressure could force the Ministry to kick off an investigation. "No, it might work," he said. "But it would be harder."
"I see," said Pomona. "And what's the worst that could happen, if you simply leave things as they are, if you don't try?"
He blanched. Umbridge in the school, teaching his classes. Ruining the children's education, their ability to defend themselves. Her smug face as she made Potter write with a blood quill. He thought of Madam Marchbanks' words from before. 'She's the sort that enjoys causing pain in others.' It wouldn't just be Potter she targeted. Maybe it would be at first. It would start with him and anyone who supported him openly. Then it would be anyone who supported him quietly. Then anyone Umbridge didn't like, or who she thought was sassing her, or who she decided didn't fit with her idea of how students ought to be. He thought of Umbridge giving some horrific detention to that odd little Ravenclaw, Lovegood.
He looked up at Pomona. "It—wouldn't be good." His voice was hoarse as he spoke. "Not for the students, not for anyone."
She nodded, but didn't say anything.
She didn't need to. She'd made it obvious, with just a few simple questions. Dawlish wanted to be a good man. A good man wouldn't let a student be tortured just because he didn't want to risk his job. A good man wouldn't let a cruel and amoral woman like Umbridge run amok in a school. A good man wouldn't stand by watching her crimes and corruption and say 'I thought about doing something, but it was just too hard.'
No. A good man—a good Hufflepuff—would stand up for what was right, even if it was difficult. He'd dithered and moaned for long enough. Now it was time to do his duty. He firmed his resolve, drained his butterbeer, and stood.
"I see you've sorted it out."
"Yes," he said. "I have a few owls to send."
"I'm glad," said Pomona. Then made a shooing gesture when he hesitated. "Oh, don't let me keep you. I brought some essays to mark."
He nodded, laid down enough coins for Pomona to have a second butterbeer if she wanted, and made to walk away. Then on an impulse he stopped. "You're one of them, you know."
"One of what?"
"A dependable, solid woman who others can lean on when they're in need."
She went red. "Oh, well. Thank you, dear."
Sending the owls took a weight off Dawlish's shoulders. The fierce and competent team of dverger who met him the next day in Hogsmeade to take possession of the blood quill, still in its envelope, took another weight off his shoulders. The brief but professional and entirely by the book acknowledgement from Madam Bones, still another.
From there it was just a matter of waiting. He taught his classes the same auror drill progressions. He saw the same students outside class for additional tutoring. He exchanged entirely ordinary owls with his old friends, bemoaning his inability to meet up down at the pub just now. He flooed his mother to keep up with her gossip about her neighbors.
And in the halls of the school, Flitwick was friendlier, Pomona was downright cheerful, Professor McGonagall was warmer. Even Snape wasn't openly hostile. He didn't know how they knew that he'd taken action, but he appreciated the improvement in atmosphere. He did wish Dumbledore would stop trying to talk to him.
He walked into the Great Hall on a Tuesday morning like any other. He had just sat down to a rasher of bacon, a cup of tea, and a bowl of porridge, when Pomona sat down beside him. She sat there, waiting, until he looked up at her.
"Pomona?"
She didn't say a word, only slid over a copy of the Prophet. She looked rather smug.
He put down his spoon, pushed the plate of bacon to the side, and drew the paper in front of him.
And did a double-take.
The headline read "Ministry Undersecretary Arrested!" The photo featured Umbridge being dragged from her office, screaming at the arresting aurors, one of whom was Madam Bones.
Dawlish felt a smile stretch across his face.
He skimmed through the rest of the story before settling in to read it properly. The Prophet was effusive in its praise of the quick action of the Ministry, in response to an anonymous report. According to them, Umbridge had been quickly and carefully investigated by Madam Bones and a hand-picked team after receiving a report from an anonymous source. The Minister had been disappointed to learn what she'd done but had cooperated fully, and had been instrumental in ensuring Umbridge was brought to justice (reading between the lines, Fudge had kicked up a terrible fuss before recognizing the inevitable, and throwing her under the oncoming hippogryph). She hadn't been tried yet, but the crimes she was being charged with... yes. Possession of illegal artifacts. Unlawful use of said illegal artifacts. Breach of the treaty of 1837, crimes against the dverger clans. Even fraud charges for the falsification of NEWT results. That last wouldn't make much difference in her sentencing, but it was satisfying nonetheless.
The dverger were pressing for clan justice, which the treaty allowed for, but Dawlish expected that was a feint. They wanted to ensure the Ministry actually enacted serious punishment, which would surely be expedited to avoid sending Umbridge to the dverger.
And there—yes, buried at the bottom, a single sentence. She was also accused of having sent a pair of dementors to Little Whinging, Surrey, with orders to attack a minor student, whose name would not be revealed in the story due to the paper's standards of journalistic ethics.
Dawlish snorted. Prophet reporters wouldn't know journalistic ethics if it leapt at them from a broomstick, flinging curses.
He looked up, over at the Gryffindor table, only to find Potter already looking at him. He met Potter's eyes. He couldn't help himself. He gave the lad the slightest of smiles, and nodded.
Potter nodded back with the same small smile, and turned back to his food.
"Happy?" said Pomona.
"Oh yes," said Dawlish. "This is the best-case scenario. Umbridge on the way out. The dverger have their artifact back. And no blow-back on me." He leaned back with a contented sigh. "I suppose the only question now is where I go from here."
"Where you go?"
"I was meant to be an interim professor, to be replaced by Umbridge. Now that that's off the table—"
"There are no circumstances under which she will be allowed into Hogwarts," said Pomona, sounding dead serious. "Ever."
"Er, right. Well yes, that's the important thing. In any case, I suppose the Ministry will sort something out. Find someone else."
"Will they?"
"They'll—" Now that he thought about it, maybe they wouldn't bother. Umbridge had been the one pushing to come to Hogwarts. The Minister didn't know Dawlish had been the one to report her, had no reason to think him anything other than an unexciting but reliable auror. He might just be left alone here to ride out the rest of the year. "You know, maybe not."
"Turn to page five," said Pomona.
He did so. And found a small blurb noting that Auror John Dawlish, interim professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, had been confirmed by the Minister to be keeping the role indefinitely 'due to extenuating circumstances.' "Huh," was all he managed to say.
"Welcome to Hogwarts, Professor Dawlish," said Pomona with a smile.
He couldn't help but smile back.
And as he thought about it, munching on a piece of bacon, he found he was all right with sticking around. He enjoyed teaching, and now he could do a proper job of it. He could keep on with the auror drills but add in some theory for a solid base. Keep up with the individual tutoring. Make sure that all his students, whatever happened in future years, would have a strong foundation to fall back on if they ever needed to defend themselves. And he could do more than that. He could get back in contact with Madam Bones, speak to her about investigating Potter's claims from last year. There was more here for him to do.
He could—what was it Pomona had said?—maybe he could learn to be a dependable Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Solid, the sort of professor others could lean on. A Hufflepuff professor.
He found he liked the idea.
"Turn to the last page."
He looked over at Pomona in surprise, but obediently turned to the final page of the paper. There was nothing there but—"the crossword?"
She smiled once more, and moved away.
Dawlish looked down at the crossword for a long moment, feeling contentment settle across him.
Then he folded the paper, put it in his sleeve, and stood from the table. He was a professor, and he had classes to teach.