Alaric Thorn had never been a fan of barren, hollow offices.
Fortunately, he carried the gateway to his plantation wherever he went. He tossed his leather briefcase onto the floor, where it landed with a heavy, stable thud. Within seconds, the latches clicked open, and the casing began to expand and stretch, rapidly reforming into the ancient, weathered door Harry had first encountered.
The black tendrils of the Devil's Snare began to slither out from beneath Alaric's robes. The sections that had been incinerated by the dragon fire only hours ago were already fully regenerated, the new growth appearing even thicker and more robust than before.
Alaric lifted a single vine, running his gloved fingers along its cool, slightly damp surface. "Mmm. A swift recovery."
While the Snare could repair itself almost indefinitely, such feats came with a steep price: a massive drain on Alaric's own mana reserves. Luckily, Alaric's internal well was deep enough to sustain such a rapid biological overhaul.
Once he was satisfied with the plant's health, a dozen thick vines snaked through the open door and into the plantation. Alaric stood back, arms crossed, watching with an air of practiced calm as the vines busily moved in and out of the gateway.
A stream of furniture was hauled out into the stone office: a massive desk of dark, polished wood; a high-backed chair upholstered in dragon hide; and two pristine bookcases crafted from solid ebony.
A few moments later, Alaric surveyed the transformed room and gave a satisfied nod. Bringing the Snare along had been a wise decision; such menial labor was exactly what the plant was suited for.
Before departing Hogwarts, Alaric made a detour to Professor Kettleburn's old office.
He expected the professor might still be lurking about, finishing his packing. However, when Alaric arrived, the room was empty save for a single scrap of parchment left atop the bare desk.
By the time you read this, Alaric, I shall already be en route to the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary. You remember that Ridgeback mother I had boarded there? She's finally produced a clutch, and I simply must be there to see the hatchlings for myself.
Alaric nodded to himself. It was quintessentially Kettleburn. The man had always prioritized his beasts above all else, and traveling halfway across the continent for a dragon egg was entirely within character.
Still, it was significant news—dragons didn't produce viable eggs in captivity very often. Alaric knew the dragon in question; he and Kettleburn had hatched her themselves years ago. It made him feel a bit sentimental to realize she was already old enough to be a mother.
Time really does fly, he mused.
He folded the note and tucked it into his pocket. Following McGonagall's earlier suggestion, he made his way to the Headmaster's office to borrow the Floo. His destination, however, wasn't his shop in Surrey, but the Leaky Cauldron.
When Alaric stepped out of the hearth at the Leaky Cauldron, evening was already settling in. The pub was its usual cacophonous self, filled with the low hum of wizards huddled over wooden tables. Alaric ignored the crowd and walked straight to the bar.
Tom, the landlord, was hunched over a silver tankard, scrubbing it with a grimy cloth. He looked up as Alaric approached. "Welcome back. What can I do for you?"
Alaric leaned against the bar, his voice low and private. "I'm in need of a worker. Someone to help me manage the medicinal crops in my plantation."
Tom's hands slowed. He peered at Alaric over his spectacles. "A worker?"
"Yes," Alaric nodded, keeping his requirements concise. "Someone with experience. Hardworking, reliable, and someone who doesn't mind staying on-site for extended periods."
Alaric had realized that with his new duties at Hogwarts, he wouldn't have the time or energy to personally tend to every sapling and root. While the Devil's Snare helped, it lacked the finesse required for delicate harvesting. He needed a human hand.
Tom tapped the bar thoughtfully. He reached under the counter and pulled out a thick, stained ledger, flipping through the pages. "I've had a few drifters through here looking for work lately... but not many want to be cooped up in a greenhouse for weeks on end. In fact, I'd say none of 'em do."
Alaric wasn't surprised. It was a sudden vacancy, and he hadn't expected an immediate match. "Then I'd like to post a formal notice," he said, sounding a bit disappointed.
Tom shut the ledger. "Right then. I'll put a notice up by the door and keep an ear out. But fair warning: not many folks fancy that kind of isolation."
"I'm aware," Alaric replied, well-prepared for the difficulty. "Which is why I'm prepared to offer a very generous salary."
"Generous, eh?" Tom repeated with a small grin. "That usually changes a man's perspective on isolation." He gave the bar a final wipe. "Posting fee is twenty Galleons."
Alaric blinked. Twenty Galleons was a bit steep, even for the Leaky Cauldron's prime real estate for news, but he was about to reach for his coin purse when a voice interrupted him.
"Wait—"
The voice was deep and weary. Alaric turned to see a man sitting at the adjacent table, a half-finished glass of Firewhisky in front of him. He looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, wearing a set of faded brown robes that had been meticulously patched at the elbows. His financial situation was clearly dire.
Alaric studied him for a moment. The man's face was etched with fatigue, and his hands were thick with calluses. Most tellingly, there were traces of fresh soil beneath his fingernails.
The man pulled back his hood slightly, revealing a kind but haunted face. "Forgive me, sir," he said politely. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but... did I hear you say you were looking for someone to tend to medicinal plants?"
Alaric appraised the stranger. "I am. I need a worker capable of long-term residence within the plantation to oversee the cultivation of rare ingredients."
The man nodded slowly, his voice laced with a careful, desperate hope. "May I... may I offer my services?"
Alaric tilted his head. "Do you have any relevant experience?"
"A fair amount," the man said quietly. "I spent several months working for a Potions supplier, handling the planting and harvesting of standard medicinal flora."
Alaric didn't care who the man was; for someone in need of immediate help, a volunteer appearing out of the blue was a godsend. "Excellent. We can discuss the hours and the pay in detail."
A look of immense relief flickered across the stranger's face. Beside them, Tom gave a small shrug and tucked his ledger away. "Looks like you've found your man. I'll save my ink on that notice."
Alaric gave a small grunt of agreement, moving the Galleons he'd intended for Tom back into his pocket. "It seems so."
Tom moved off to serve another customer, leaving Alaric alone with the stranger. Alaric turned back to him, his expression softening into its usual refined mask.
"And what is your name?"
"Remus Lupin."