The Job Offer
Chuuya was going to strangle that Burbage lady.
She would not stop throwing question after question at him, the rapid fire English grating at his mild hangover. And then there was Dazai, only encouraging her curiosity and being his insufferable self. He was almost dizzy by the time Dazai’s new boss had left, the Gandalf looking bastard still rubbing him the wrong way.
“A teacher, Dazai. Really?” Chuuya finally sighed, taking in the fresh air like the god save it was. That bar was suffocating in its own right, the mild scent of alcohol lingering in the place a constant reminder of his aforementioned hangover. It was nice to finally walk back into the open air of Diagon Alley, even if the place still held a depressing atmosphere. “I can’t believe they’re letting you be a teacher. You shouldn’t be around impressionable youth,” he shook his head. The image of Akutagawa lingered in the back of his mind, soon overlaid with that of his latest mentee. Despite his reservations, it… would probably be fine. The (very broad) subject he’d been assigned seemed tame enough. Chuuya sighed. “Don’t they do background checks? Or have qualifications? Like a teaching certificate or something?”
“Nope!” the bastard grinned. “While the position I’m in has already had a couple changes in recent years, there’s this other course that goes through a new teacher every year. With what I’ve heard about those former employees, I doubt screening their applicants has been a priority.”
Chuuya raised an eyebrow, “But it’s a school? A place that people entrust their kids to?”
“Take it up with the headmaster,” Dazai shrugged before sending him a wink, “And don’t forget, it does make it easier for us. A solid position in the wizarding world near some of the most influential wizards in recent times and the next generation.”
“And you’re gonna have to deal with all those little bastards. You’ll have your work cut out for you.”
“Chuuya, Chuuya,” the bastard tsked, “We’ll have our work cut out for us. The class will finally have a ‘real-life muggle’ as a teaching assistant. And Kunikida did it, how hard could it be?”
Right. To his dismay, Dazai had argued for (and succeeded in) letting Chuuya be the first muggle to be technically hired by Hogwarts, even if it was as a teaching assistant. Burbage had been super on board with it, and the Dumbles guy was apprehensive enough but seemed to want Dazai enough to allow it. Real fucking suspicious, but he’d have the chance to look into that later.
The current professor of the course had been ecstatic, his presence apparently an ‘enrichment’ opportunity. That was how Burbage had put it, the woman apparently taking a sabbatical from her position to ‘do some research’ in the ‘muggle world’. Chuuya, personally, thought it sounded a little too much like a vacation— Dazai even gave her an itinerary for some Japanese tourist spots— but who was he to comment on something that made his mission easier.
Well, as easy as being around a bunch of snot-nosed brats-with-wands was going to be.
Chuuya huffed, still reeling from the absolute lack of care the people who made the offer had. Who looked at Dazai and thought ‘let’s put this man in charge of some children!’. He had dealt with enough people as an executive to recognize the Gandalf copycat had other motives with hiring Dazai, at least. But Dazai had made his play, and once again he would have no choice but to follow. He really was out of his depth with all this magic bullshit.
Damn, why the hell had he been assigned this mission? (He knew why, it didn’t mean he had to like it.)
“Remind me what subject you’re teaching again?” Chuuya asked after a moment. It was a weird ass name, he knew that much.
“Muggle studies!” Dazai cheered, “I’m already a shoe in with this one, though I have no doubt their curriculum will be lacking.”
Chuuya snorted. “Muggle studies, huh. From what you’ve said, I’m surprised it’s even a track.”
“An elective,” Dazai clarified. “I know all about the ‘cultural preservation’ thing wizards have going on, but some things are pretty important. Especially when most wizards or wizarding villages tend to land smack dab in the center of the muggle world. Or end up connected to it in one way or another.”
They fell into a comfortable silence after that, and it was easy enough to spot the presence that soon started trailing after them. This, of all things, was something Chuuya was familiar with.
“Chuuya.”
“What?” he asked, still aware of the man following them, one who seemed to be quickly approaching.
“Did I ever mention who my father was? What he does?”
His face twisted. “No, what the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“You’ll see,” were the last words Dazai got in before a shout pulled their attention.
“Hey!”
It came from behind them, that figure lurking at their back finally making his move. Chuuya sent Dazai a glare for his cryptic bullshit before turning to watch the older man hobble towards them. His hair was gray and slicked back, gruff lines pulling at his face from what seemed like a lifetime of scowling.
“Hello,” Dazai chirped before glancing at their surroundings. “Are you sure you want to do this all out in the open? While most the occupants on this street wouldn’t mind, I’m sure you’d like some privacy.”
Chuuya scanned the man. Why the hell was Dazai bringing up his father? His eyes narrowed as he wondered what their current stalker had to do with the man. Unless this guy was Dazai’s sperm donor? He eyed the man again, taking note of his crooked teeth, hooked nose, and the complete lack of resemblance. Nah, he finally decided, if this guy was Dazai’s father, he certainly didn’t get any genes from him. As much as it pained him to admit it, Dazai wasn’t exactly ugly.
The same could not be said for the man confronting them.
“Then you are Osamu Dazai, I presume?” said man confirmed. He looked… unsettled, almost, as he met Dazai’s eyes. They had that red glint to them beneath the clouded daylight, vast and as unreachable as ever.
“The one and only,” he boasted. “Now what could Mr. Corban Yaxley want with me?”
Yaxley, not Riddle. So definitely not Dazai’s father, but connected to him somehow.
Chuuya may not know who exactly Tom Riddle was outside of being Dazai’s absent father, but he’d remember the strange whispers those at the trial had given when the name had been mentioned. The pressing way Dazai’s new boss had brought the man up when he’d cornered them after the trial.
Just who was Dazai’s father to the wizarding U.K.? And what did he have to do with this old guy?
Yaxley, as Dazai revealed, frowned at the recognition. “You’re Tsushima’s son, are you not?”
“You’ve read the court statements,” he shrugged, “Now, did you want to invite us out for tea? Lunch? Or just a conversation in some corner shop or back alleyway?”
At the mention of an ‘us’, Yaxley’s attention finally drifted towards Chuuya. He, for one, did not appreciate the disdain in that look.
“Your… muggle companion is unnecessary,” the words came difficult, a sneer lingering on muggle. There was no attempt at disguising his thoughts on the matter.
For all Chuuya had dealt with, this dismissal was something else. He'd faced contempt for being a street rat, a criminal, an ability user, but his lack of magic was a new one. If anything, Dazai had always been the weird one for having it, not that any others knew of it.
Chuuya didn’t bother straightening, or any attempt at intimidation. It was substituted for a relaxed tilt of the head, controlled as he stared the man down. An insect wasn’t worth his effort. “If you're dragging this bastard off somewhere, obviously I'm coming with.”
“Of course my loyal dog would feel the need to tread in my footsteps!” Dazai burst, looping an arm over his shoulders as he pulled him in closer. His protests were mitigated only by the fact they had an observer, one of such Chuuya hadn’t yet decided the importance of. That didn’t stop him from scowling.
“Very well,” Yaxley voiced, strained, a dapple of confusion hidden in his eyes. He did not turn his back to them as they inched their way into the crack between two buildings, hand tucked into his dreary robe. Chuuya, though he did not have much experience with the things, imagined he was clutching his wand. Dazai’s was, per usual, stored in Chuuya’s own pockets, the mackerel not bothering with it himself and yet expecting him to keep hold of it.
Chuuya did, but only because there was only one wizard between the two of them and most things in this society were aided by the presence of a wand.
“So!” Dazai clapped, Yaxley unable to suppress his flinch at the sound, “What does my dear old dad want to know?”
And there was that line of questioning. Chuuya’s curiosity was peaked.
The man’s face bloomed red. “The disrespect—” he hissed, pausing to let out a breath. His eyes were narrowed at Dazai. “I see you are abiding to your claim of heritage.”
“Oh don’t be like that, Yaxley,” the waste of bandages waved away, “I know you’ve spoken to my mother already. You’ve known her for a long time, you had to have been aware of their… relationship, so to speak.”
Chuuya raised an eyebrow at the expression the gruff man made. He looked a little green in the face.
“I was aware of the rumors, yes,” his voice was strained, discomfort palpable, “Though my lord was unaware of Tsushima’s condition, so to speak, when she abandoned the cause.”
“I imagine so,” Dazai gave a series of nods, “My mother’s secretive like that, you know? Never quite liked that about her.”
Chuuya buried his snort. The mackerel was swimming in secrets, whether that was him being a wizard or his moments in the mafia buried with his attempt at a new life.
Chuuya couldn’t help his grin, “So you really are a bastard in every sense of the word, then?”
Dazai pouted, “Chibi’s so mean to me sometimes!” A cough interrupted them. “Ah, right, you’re still here.” Yaxley looked put out at their exchange, somehow managing to deepen his glare towards Chuuya. “So, Yaxley,” Dazai crooned but a moment later, “I’d like you to tell my father I just so happen to have been hired at an esteemed institution in the area.”
Yaxley shifted his harsh gaze to Dazai. “Where?” he barked.
Dazai gave a shark-like grin. “Hogwarts.”
***
Kyoka was busy. She was working through the paperwork of her last assignment (the parts Kunikida would let her complete as a minor), the others around her in a state between slacking off (Ranpo) and completing their own work. The Tanizaki’s were out on a case and Yosano was reorganizing the infirmary, the president left to his office as usual. The agency had finally settled into somewhat of a rhythm, though the atmosphere was undoubtedly duller without Dazai. Even so, where Atsushi had once sulked at his mentor’s absence, he was now doing a much different kind of sulking.
Kyoka watched as Atsushi groaned for the fourth time that hour (they were only fifteen minutes in), glaring at his phone before furious tapping ensued. Kunikida’s eye twitched.
“What could possibly be taking so much of your attention? If you haven’t noticed, some of us are trying to get work done. Of which is made more difficult by your incessant tapping,” the man finally snapped, though his pen made it out alive for once.
Atsushi’s annoyed slouch immediately straighted, shoulders hiking as his phone tumbled onto the floor with the startle. “I’m sorry Kunikida! It’s just some… uh…” His phone buzzed and all three of their gazes followed. “Um… I should…” Kyoka eyed Atsushi’s fingers as they twitched towards the noise.
“You should call him,” Kyoka finally joined before muttering, “You would probably get more done. Texting makes throwing insults slower.”
Atsushi glanced between her and Kunikida. “…Right.” He made no move for the phone even as it buzzed again.
Kunikida sighed before pinching his brow, “Fine. Go have whatever phone call you need to. At least I know you have a solid work ethic. Not to mention you’re not doing Dazai’s share for the time being.”
“Thank you Kunikida!” Atsushi gave a deep bow, picking up his phone in the process before shuffling out the room, the door closing with barely a click.
“That kid,” Kunikida shook his head before turning back to his work. “Feel free to take a break too, Kyoka. Heaven knows we’ve needed more than a few lately.” She gave a simple nod.
Her gaze lingered on the door for just a moment before she sighed, wandering deeper into the office. She settled down in a chair next to Kenji, who was currently admiring a potted plant on the desk.
“Oh! Hi Kyoka!” Kenji greeted.
“Hello Kenji.” Kyoka fiddled with the bunny charm on her phone in the face of Kenji’s bright smile. A comfortable silence settled between the two. It was a common enough practice between them, enjoying the warmth of each other’s presence.
Kyoka thought back to Atsushi. She couldn’t help the frown that marred her face as she thought to who had been on the other line. Akutagawa.
“Kenji,” she suddenly turned, the boy blinking up from his plant with a hum, “Do you believe in magic?”
“Of course!” Kenji sent back a radiant smile, not an ounce of hesitation. Kyoka blinked up at him. Well, that had been fast. “Back in my village, there’s a witch who helps everyone out. She makes all sorts of potions, some that could fix broken bones or help stop diseased crops from spreading. And she grew most of her potion ingredients herself! Everyone would know when it was mandrake harvest day since she would have to set up a whole bunch of silencing charms to make sure the rest of the villagers wouldn’t die when the plants screamed.”
“Screamed?” she couldn’t help slip, Kenji’s nod not all that reassuring. That wasn’t horrifying at all, was her first thought. Her second was that Kenji had mentioned a witch. “So witches are real?”
“Yeah, do city folk not know that?”
Kyoka shrugged, “Atsushi said Dazai’s a wizard.”
“Oh! Good for him. I wonder if he could get me some of those plants when he comes back,” he contemplated. It was nice that was all Kenji thought of it, even if Kyoka’s worldview was being subtly shifted. She hadn’t not believed Atsushi, but she had to admit the idea of magic was a hard one to digest even in a world with abilities. But Kenji had heard of it, and while others sometimes commented on his naivete (she’d noticed a bit of it herself), he had sounded so confident when speaking about the witch in his village.
With a sudden determination, she turned back to the boy. “Kenji, would you mind helping me with an investigation? I think Atsushi’s doing something stupid.”
“Sure! Why not?” Kenji nodded. “What’s Atsushi doing?”
“Dazai left a task behind for him and Atsushi thinks it has to do with him being a wizard. He wants him and… another person to find something.” Mentioning Akutagawa’s part in this wasn’t something she wanted to get into just yet.
Kenji seemed to think for a moment, “Ranpo’s pretty good at finding things. Why don’t we just ask him?”
She frowned. “I don’t know if—”
“Ranpo-san!” Kenji stood up, waving to said detective across the room. “Can you—?”
Ranpo-san released his sucker with a pop, “Dazai’s desk, third drawer down on the right. You’re lucky he already bribed me for this.”
Kunikida jumped at the cross-room conversation, looking flustered as he whipped his head back and forth at the sudden interaction. “What are you all talking about?”
Kyoka was already pulling open the drawer. There was a flicker of frustration when it appeared to be a junk drawer, pens, stray wrappers, the odd paperclip or receipt.
“Did you find anything?”
Kenji had approached her while she was rifling, leaning over her shoulder to examine the contents of the drawer.
“Dazai should learn how to organize things,” was all she muttered as she continued the search.
“What’s this?” Kenji interrupted, reaching a hand out to tug at a paper that’d been revealed. “An invitation?”
“Wait, wait, wait! Just what are you two doing?”
Both fourteen year olds looked up at Kunikida, who’d gotten up from his desk during her sudden rush. Kyoka did her best not to look guilty— not hard considering she didn’t feel any guilt for this. Kenji was looking similarly innocent, probably because the boy didn’t realize anything they could have been doing was technically a violation of privacy. Either way it must’ve worked because all their uptight senior did was release a heavy sigh.
“You know what? I don’t want to know.” Kunikida shook his head as he returned back to his seat, glaring warily at where Ranpo sat snacking without a care in the world.
Kyoka finally took her eyes off Kunikida when she felt a tap at her shoulder, manually relaxing from her instinct to tense. “It’s an invitation to an auction!” Kenji said and she watched as Kunikida twitched in her periphery, his scribbling ticking up in intensity.
Looking down at the ticket, she read over the information. It was a couple months away, location listed in Tokyo and addressed to one Tsushima Shuuji.
An item, she recalled from Dazai’s note, he’d been warning them about an occult item.
“Hey Kenji, do you mind doing some detective work with me?”
It was time Kyoka did some research of her own.
***
There was a prisoner in Malfoy Manor.
An actual prisoner— as much as Draco felt like a prisoner at times, he wasn’t, wouldn’t let that thought linger too long— the man hauled in with chained wrists and his head held high.
Draco had caught nothing but a glimpse, an amethyst gaze dismissive as the man had been ushered down the halls. There was a wary distance between him and his escorts, even with the man’s hands in shackles. A practice barbaric compared to the binding spells the Death Eaters no doubt knew. What about him made the Death Eaters so wary?
His first and only question to his mother on the matter. He received no answer.
In the little he’d heard of the man since (a mix of loose lips and Death Eater’s forgetting his presence in a room), he was responsible for the death of three— or four? He was unsure— of their own. Why he was still alive confused Draco to no end. He was smart enough not to draw attention to himself by asking, but the odd looks the Death Eaters would get when they spoke of interrogating the prisoner stuck with him.
Whoever the prisoner was, he sat chained in their basement, an interrogator passing through every so often. Draco had gathered enough that the rash were disallowed that privilege. A different kind of fear pervaded the subject. There was a caution about him he did not understand.
They were afraid to kill him and Draco did not know why.
His survival instincts knew better than to ask.
“Draco Malfoy.” He turned at the call of his name, Gibbon standing in the doorway of the parlor he spent most his time in these days. “The Dark Lord summons you.”
He gave a nod to the man even as he felt the urge to quiver, following as he escorted him down the halls. His forearm itched, the mark staining his skin an ever present thought as he trailed behind the Death Eater. He traversed halls he’d known his entire life, passing some that lingered in his social circles, others that were ragged at the edges, years spent imprisoned having taken their toll. Still yet there were those unfamiliar to him, newer recruits and dark creatures Draco had never imagined could’ve set foot in this place. Werewolves were an unsavory sort of vermin, and yet Malfoy Manor was hosting a whole pack.
Draco bowed his head once they finally entered, the Dark Lord sitting in a chair once used by his father, Corban Yaxley and his aunt Bellatrix standing off to the side. While this had not been his most frequented office, he had memories of his father meeting with various wizards here. A negotiation space. Of course, this would be anything but a negotiation.
“Draco Malfoy,” the Dark Lord called, “I assume the talk of my apparent offspring has reached your ears, yes?”
He’d heard the rumors— how could he have not? The Dark Lord had a son. His mother was a Japanese pureblood that had fled the cause sometime in the first half of the wizarding war. Draco didn’t know what would possess someone to have any sort of relationship of… that matter… with the Dark Lord, let alone have sired his child.
Draco suppressed a shudder at the thought. From the members who’d been around at the time, he derived that it was a mutual relationship, though it was hard to see the appeal of the form he currently held. Apparently, the Dark Lord used to be conventionally attractive. He thought back to the deathly pallor and… nose situation (and the lack thereof) that sat before him now.
“I have been made aware,” he replied, if only to rid his mind of that unsavory train of thought.
“Yaxley has confirmed the matter with his mother and my… progeny himself,” the Dark Lord spoke, lips curling around the words. “His allegiance is yet to be determined, although certain matters leave his contribution to our cause unlikely. As he still holds my blood, he may, however, find use.”
“Yes, my Lord,” he assented. What did this have to do with him? Why was this being brought up? “If I may be so callous, for what reason have I been brought to you today?”
“Oh it’s absolutely magnificent! You’ll—”
“Bellatrix,” the Dark Lord hissed in warning, his aunt quieting even as she seemed to vibrate with anticipation. “Listen carefully, for I will not repeat myself,” the Dark Lord announced with a downward twist of his lips, an echo of a hiss lapping at his words, “My progeny has been offered a position at Hogwarts, no doubt a foul move by Dumbledore to keep his blood from my reach. He is to teach muggle studies.”
Draco’s eyes widened minutely at the revelation, twin scowls tugging at both Yaxley’s and Bellatrix’s expressions, though the latter’s was more of a pout. The Dark Lord’s son chosen to teach muggle studies. It was inconceivable. Another second passed, the realization of why he had been called here hit him.
The Dark Lord’s offspring was teaching muggle studies. At Hogwarts.
Was his current task not enough?
“Would you like me to observe him?” Draco asked, offered, putting on the mask of usefulness he had to wear so often these days.
“Obviously,” the Dark Lord spat, “Yaxley will assist you with the specifics.” He gestured the man forward.
Yaxely eyed him, “To my dismay, he has opened the elective to any third year and higher who would like to join, regardless of whether they had chosen the track in their third year.” Draco tried to mask the blood that drained from his face. “Although this is unprecedented, it will be useful for us.” They were going to make him take muggle studies. A Malfoy in muggle studies. How was he meant to keep a low profile?
How was he meant to succeed in his first task?
Still, he kept his mouth shut. Draco knew better than to argue as his enrollment request was written up, as his aunt Bellatrix patted him on the back for receiving yet another prestigious mission from their Lord. While she shared his distaste for having to take the course, she talked on and on about the honour this trial would give him in the eyes of the Dark Lord. How he could prove himself. His loyalty.
Soon enough, his missions consumed all his thoughts, all else shoved aside. Any curiosity he had towards the man in his basement meant little in comparison to the lengths he had to go to ensure his family’s safety, to give them a favorable place in the Dark Lord’s plans. He Who Must Not Be Named had a mission for him. And the upcoming year sounded like a nightmare.