Chapter 3
Dean is antsy. He really doesn’t like witches, and it’s not like there’s been a track record of them liking him either.
He lets Sam guide them towards the bartender, and as he walks, he adjusts his jacket so that the pistol tucked into his waistband isn’t visible. He doesn’t want to alarm the general witchy population, and he certainly doesn’t want to open fire on a crowd of mostly families.
The air smells slightly stale, and the candles and chandeliers that are lighting up the room are barely doing a decent job, leaving the corners less visible than he would’ve liked.
Sam leads them through the busy room, and Dean tries to have as little contact with the people inside as possible. What if they can smell he’s not a witch or something?
He ignores that train of thought when Sam clicks his fingers behind his back, catching Deans attention. Scoffing, Dean hands over the wad of cash to his brother. The ease of the whole wordless communication thing they have going on isn’t lost on him, but it’s definitely convenient since it saves Dean having to interact with the he-witch behind the counter.
“Hi there. Two glasses of whiskey please,” Sam begins as they finally break the crowd milling the room and Sam folds himself near in half to lean an arm on the bar. Dean muffles a snort at the ridiculousness of the pose, but is awed to find that he and Sam are by far the tallest guys in the room. Even though he’s not tree sized like Sam, he can cleanly see over pretty much everyone's head. Maybe English witches are just short?
Dean watches as Sam places two bills on the counter, but is slightly startled to have the barkeep roll his eyes and push the notes back to them grumpily.
“We don’t take muggle money here. Convert it at Gringotts if you want it to be useful,” the guy says, his voice gruff and low. Despite his rough demeanour, he still pulls two glasses out and fills them up for them, sliding the glasses over the polished wood counter.
Dean lets Sam do the whole overthinking thing, the sound of his brain turning over the new phrases audible from the other end of the room probably. While Sam is doing that, Dean stuffs the notes into his pocket and picks up the drink, lifting it in thanks at the old guy, eyes never leaving him as he picks up the cloth and begins wiping the same glass.
“Sorry, we ain’t from ‘round here,” Dean says after taking a sip, pushing his accent a little. He’s noticed that people tend to forgive his ignorance of English customs if he amps up the drawl a little, making him seem more like some useless tourist. “I’m Dean, and this is my brother Sam.”
Sam lifts his drink in greeting as well, nodding his head in agreement with Dean to the barkeep but keeping his mouth shut. Better that way, considering Sam’s accent got posh while he was away at Stanford. Can’t have him messing up the illusion with his accent of all things.
Said barkeep nods back and continues with his glass, but this time with his eyes on them. “First drink’s on the house. I’m Tom, owner of this place,” Tom says, wary eyes softening slightly at the innocent act Sam and him have got going on.
Dean grins as charmingly as he can. He takes another sip, hums at the warmth pooling in his gut, before leaning down a little to lean his elbows on the counter like his brother. “We’re here on a holiday, and we gotta say, it’s very different from back home,” he begins, turning his eyes around the room with an appreciative expression.
Tom smiles proudly at them, the corner of his eyes wrinkling heavily from the force of it, and Dean knows he’s got him hook, line and sinker. Sam hums appreciatively from his side, disguising it as him agreeing again.
“Place is old but she’s been in the family for generations now. Can’t get rid of her anyway, it’s important to the culture, you know? Diagon Alley wouldn’t be the same,” Tom explains, his chest puffing a little at the self-titled importance of the place.
Dean opens his mouth to play along a bit more but pauses momentarily as Sam’s foot stomps none too gently on his own under the view of the counter. He disguises his wince to glare at his brother quickly. Sam gestures with his eyes and puts down his drink gently, straightening his posture a little as he begins to speak.
“Diagon Alley, you say? See, we’re actually here so that we can go sightseeing and check the place out, but our friends only pointed us here,” his brother rambles slightly, and Dean is almost proud to hear the drawl in his voice.
As Sam continues the farce of them as tourists, Tom’s eyes widen and he makes a sound of understanding.
“Some friends you have. They didn’t explain we use a different currency to American wizards and British muggles? Or that you should’ve been staying in the magical area of London anyway?” he raises his eyebrows in outrage. Dean sends a thank you to his non-existent British witch friends who mislead Sam and him, seeing as the misunderstanding is what is gonna get them to the place they wanted to end up in anyway.
Sam looks a little thrown off guard for a second at the mentions of different currency before gathering himself a little. “Um, yeah, they didn’t really explain much. About the currency, we have to have, uh, British wizarding currency? The normal bills won’t work?”
The wrinkled barkeep swaps out the glass he’s been swiping at for another one, hands shaking slightly in the way that old people’s hands did.
“You really aren’t from here,” he begins with slight wonder. “We use the galleon system instead of muggle bank notes. When you get into Diagon Alley, head all the way down the street to the big marble building called Gringotts. The goblins will swap out the currency for galleons and such.”
Dean watches quietly, sipping at his drink as Sam opens his mouth, eyebrows furrowed as he takes in the explanation.
“And don’t ask me about the exchange rate, boy, I don’t spend time in the muggle world so I wouldn’t know,” Tom finishes before Sam can even get his question out. Sam obediently shuts his mouth with an audible clack
Dean laughs at the sight, feeling light at the whole exchange. It’s been a while since Sam’s actually been funny, especially after the whole Lilith debacle. Dean wipes a non-existent tear from his eye as he cheers’ Tom.
“I hear ya’. Would you mind pointing us in the direction of the entrance? We’ve got a big day of sightseeing and then a long trek back to our hotel, so we should probably get a move on,” Dean asks, throwing back the rest of his drink as he straightens up and cracking his neck as he does.
“I’ll get my wife Tanith to lead you through,” Tom says, before he turns towards the inconspicuous door behind the counter and shouts for said wife. Dean raises his eyebrows a little at the volume, but they somehow don’t manage to draw a stare from any of the witches in the room. If this really is a witch convention. He really hopes it isn’t.
A woman who looks just as old as Tom steps through the door, before slamming it shut behind her. She’s holding a bucket of murky liquid that's threatening to spill all over her odd black dress, and a long twig sticking out of her hair that’s tied back messily.
“What?” she grits out before dumping the bucket on the floor to slosh sadly.
Tom gestures to Dean and Sam with his head, and Dean smiles at her while his brother waves pleasantly. “These two boys don’t know the way into Diagon Alley. Give them the basics, will ya?”
He turns back to them and winks. “And if you need a place to stay that’s closer to Diagon Alley, we’re also an inn. I’ve got a good few rooms for you if you’d like.”
Dean can see Sam’s eyes light up at that, and he resigns himself to making the same trek again tomorrow.
“Thank you so much for your help, Tom,” Sam says as Dean snags his glass from him to finish. The brew mustn’t have been that strong considering Dean can barely even feel it settle in his stomach, but he doesn’t have time to ponder on the apparently weak Witch liquor because Sam is already pushing through the steadily filling pub after Tanith.
Dean thanks Tom one last time before following his brother, careful not to touch anyone still. Just because he managed to have a civil conversation with a witch doesn’t mean he’s gonna be around them any more than necessary.
At first glance the people were weird, and upon second glance, they’re even weirder. Tanith bustles ahead of them, her long black dress trailing behind her elegantly, and her fashion statement with the twig in her hair seems to be a trend amongst the general witch population. Dean can spot a different twig on almost everyone here, stuffed into back pockets or laid beside drinks, even just being held by people.
Dean’s pulled out of his staring by Sam pushing him by his shoulder, somehow managing to slip past Dean while he’d been preoccupied. “Something’s not right here, Sammy,” Dean whispers to his brother, eyes trained on the warm brown of Tanith’s stick that's sticking out of her hair.
“Of course something isn’t right Dean, we’re surrounded by witches who also just so happen to think we’re witches too,” Sam whispers back, tone exasperated as he keeps shoving Dean forward, until they finally end up in a small courtyard outside the inn.
There’s nothing in the courtyard except the brick walls and a dejected pot plant to one side. Dean is instantly on alert, arm reaching back to casually place a hand near his gun. He eyes Tanith warily as she pulls the stick from her hair, letting it fall in curls down her back, and turns her head so that they can hear her begin to speak.
“Right, so you’ll want your wands,” she starts, voice croaky before she clears her throat and waves the stick around to illustrate what she meant by ‘wand’. Dean flicks his eyes to Sam, just to see him looking just as confused.
“Then you’ll want to just tap this particular brick with your wand. Third up, second across,” Tanith continues, moving her… wand upwards and then two bricks to the right. She steps aside so that they can see more clearly which brick she touches, and Dean stores that information for later.
As soon as Tanith finishes tapping the brick and moves her wand away, there’s a loud shifting sound, like concrete grinding against itself, and Dean fights back the urge to jump as the wall moves.
The bricks are turning and jumping almost, splitting from their mortar from the middle of the wall and grinding to form a large archway. Despite the general ‘what the fuck’ feeling Dean has going on right now, he’s even more unnerved by the street behind the archway. If he’d been overwhelmed by a seemingly sturdy brick wall apparently moving, the street, which he assumes is Diagon Alley, is like being punched in the face with magic.
The street’s are crowded, witches dressed in their weird robe things with their twigs– wands, he reminds himself almost hysterically– poking out of pockets or held in hands as they’re waved about carelessly. Children run through their parents’ legs, also in blanket robes, laughing as they tug down their pointed brim hats. There’s giant balloons floating through the air, and what looks like fireworks in the shape of moving animals weaving between them. Actually moving. Like the fireworks are sentient.
Dean feels his brain screech to a halt as the cacophony of noise and things that don’t make sense overload his brain. From the corner of his eye, he sees Sam flinch when a sentient firework makes another loud bang.
The reminder that Sam is there with him snaps him back to reality quick enough, and he pinches Sam as discreetly as he can to jolt him out of it too. Tanith is still staring at them, waiting for them to move or say something, but she doesn’t seem to be weirded out by their reactions. She seems more invested, and slightly proud of the Alley.
A forced smile stretches onto his face and Dean turns to Tanith as if to completely block out the shit show in front of him. “Wow. We certainly weren’t expecting something like this!” he grits out, and stomps on Sam’s foot to make him follow along.
Sam lets out a strangled kind of laugh. “Yeah, this sure is something. Not like anything we’ve ever seen before.”
While Dean is busy trying to shove every crazy thought out of his head and focus on the game plan, Tanith smiles and begins to pull her hair back, her nose pointing upwards in pride of the circus behind her. “That’s our Diagon Alley, best laneway in magical Britain.”
Dean keeps up the smile and drags Sam along with him as he steps towards the archway. Sam moves as little as possible, not seeming to want to go into the godless land of witches. Tanith gives them an odd look as Dean snaps up his arms as quick as possible to wrap around Sam’s throat and drag him down into a headlock. He knuckles Sam’s girly curls as hard as he can realistically get away with without retaliation, and Sam lets out a garbled shout before slipping out of it.
“Cmon, Sammy! Let’s go explore what the best magical Britain has to offer,” Dean enthuses, and Tanith doesn’t seem to pick up on the sarcasm or panic in either of them. Sam thanks her soulessly and drags unwilling feet behind him as Dean steps through the archway.
(-)
“No really Sammy, I’m not disturbed in any way by this, totally not freaking out” he says aloud, voice strained and slightly high-pitched.
They’re seated in a booth inside some dodgy pub in ‘Knockturn Alley’, sipping on something called a ‘Swiggler’s Fizzlegig’, which cost them 12 ‘sickles’. They had acquired these ‘sickles’ through a goblin who worked at a bank that held dragons. Every second word feels made up, and he feels ridiculous saying them out loud, so he settles for drinking his Swiggler’s Fizzlegig quietly.
After the pleasant encounter that was the Gringotts goblin clerk, Dean had wordlessly led Sam down a dirty side alley and pulled him into the first place that looked like it served alcohol. Sam hadn’t even given a token protest, despite it being their second drink of the day.
Dean’s not freaking out.
“This is the largest scale magical community we’ve ever seen. It doesn’t seem to operate like a coven does, it’s more like a secret society. An insanely powerful and very archaic secret magical society. Feats of magic with a wave of a wand, no blood sacrifices in sight…” Sam trails off as he mumbles, apparently ignoring anything Dean had said.
“This is weird, even for us,” Dean groans, leaning his elbows onto the table in front of them and putting his head on his hands. Closing his eyes isn’t that different from having them open, considering how dark it is inside the pub, candles floating around the room by themselves and sputtering lightly. It makes it difficult to see beyond the drink in his hand, let alone other people’s faces, but Dean appreciates the anonymity.
“It’s insane, and definitely the most interesting thing that’s happened since Cas’ message. Think about it Dean,” Sam starts up again, and this time he’s actually acknowledging Dean, since he’s pulling Dean’s hands away from his face so he has to look at Sam.
“That’s probably why we couldn’t find anything online about monsters or whatever! There clearly is some organised global magical community that’s hiding them from normal people, like Tom mentioned! These ‘muggles’ must be normal people, and these witches have got their own currency, their own streets and shops and probably even towns, all hidden like the Leaky Cauldron was for us at first, keeping themselves secret entirely!” Sam rambles, and Dean props his chin on his hand to listen better.
Dean forgets how much of a nerd his brother is sometimes, but it’s easy to remember when he’s excited at the prospect of witch currency and society. Just the idea of it has Sam gesturing wildly, his hair that was previously tucked behind his ears falling out to frame his face, green eyes practically shining. He looks so different from the Sam that Dean’s been putting up with for the past few years, heavy with grief and guilt that aged his little brother far beyond his years.
“And the best part is, there hasn’t been any signs of our type of witches hanging around, trying to hex us,” Dean jokes, realising Sam was waiting on a response.
“Yeah, Dean, that too,” Sam snorts and rolls his eyes. “We gotta find a library or something. This could be a huge lead, especially if it gives us the information we need to contact Cas again to bring us home.”
Dean had thought something along those lines when he saw the ease that these witches managed to defy the laws of physics and Dean’s sanity, but he hadn’t wanted to put too much stock in it, knowing that with their luck, everything could and would go wrong.
As he opens his mouth to respond, there’s a commotion from the other end of the pub. Dean’s head snaps to the scene, and he can see Sam tense slightly and turn as well, while Dean reaches behind him to rest his hand on the gun tucked into his waistband. He doesn’t know how effective a bullet will be against a witch’s magic wand thing, but he’ll damn well try his best.
Across the room, two robed figures stand face to face, any identifying features hidden from everyone else, but they seem familiar enough with each other, if the increasingly loud argument is anything to go by. One of the figures pulls out their magic twig from their pocket, which sends loud alarm bells ringing through Dean’s mind. Immediately he’s got his gun in his hand, keeping it at the ready but as out of sight as possible. He gestures for Sam to slide back into the shadows, and wordlessly, Sam follows, using the darkness to try and hide themselves from being collateral.
The other figure, at the sight of wands being drawn, has their own out in a second. They jab it at the other person, aggressively yelling something about “Death Eater scum”. Dean flicks his eyes to Sam and they silently add it to the list of things to research about.
Some of the other patrons have moved to intervene, pulling both of them apart from each other, but that doesn’t seem to accomplish anything but make the scum guy wave his wand and spit some random vaguely Latin sounding words with venom.
It’s like time stands still for the split second after the word is uttered, before all hell breaks loose.
Something like a large shockwave erupts from the figure’s wand, sending everyone in the pub flying over tables or pushed against walls. The very wood from the floorboards lifts up and splinters and every drink shatters, flying across the room to embed themselves in walls and other patrons.
Despite him and Sam being closest to the wall, it doesn’t save them from being knocked something nasty, though they’re probably doing better than the people who were thrown out the glass windows of the place.
Silence reigns inside the pub for a moment after the eruption, and Dean notes how the guy who did the magic is the only one standing unharmed beside the bartender behind the counter, who has his own wand out and a translucent bubble surrounding him.
Then all of a sudden, the noise comes rushing back in, and everyone is panicking.
He lowers his arms from where they’d been protecting his face and does a quick scan of himself, finding nothing beyond a slight disorientation and a tiny cut on the junction where his neck meets his shoulder from a stray piece of glass.
He quickly turns to check on his brother, panic ripping through him. Sam’s leaning against the wall, one hand pressed to the back of his head and his lips pursed in pain, but when they make eye contact, he shakes his head to signal he’s fine and not injured.
With that, Dean decides it’s time to get out, so he begins to slip out of the booth as unobtrusively as possible, knowing that Sam is right behind him. As they move, the guy who caused the explosion pockets their wand, seeming triumphant, but acted too soon and their original opponent is soon climbing out of a pile of wood and table carcasses, still entirely robed and anonymous despite the blood pooling below them.
People are screaming outside the shop, running past and fleeing in terror. The bartender has stuck his head inside of a fireplace for some godforsaken reason, and the two robed morons are facing each other again, clearly ready for round two.
‘Death Eater scum’ guy doesn’t have time to pull their wand back out before their opponent is shooting a red light from their wand with another Latin word. This time, rather than an explosion, the light misses its intended target by a few inches, said target having twisted their upper body in a truly spectacular fashion to avoid it.
They’ve pulled out their wand by now, and the two of them are yelling random words and sending bolts of light at each other. Despite probably needing to get out of there, Dean is mesmerised by the display, especially with how beautiful the colours are, vivid and bright like the fireworks he and Sam used to watch when they were kids.
They keep shooting the lights at each other, generally missing since the other dodges, before one puts up a translucent barrier that seems to act as a shield, and the light sent towards it bounces off it and hits the wall a few feet from Sam and Dean.
Dean turns wide eyes to where the spell had hit, and how its scorched a hole through at least three layers of wall, before grabbing Sam and booking it towards the front of the pub.
As they finally make it out, climbing out of a broken front window with ease, Dean notes the chaos of the street. People are still running around and screaming, and now spells are flying out from the shop more often since those shields started being used. Smoke is filling up the place from somewhere, and the cobblestones are wet with rain, causing people to slip as they flee. Dean watches as a light hits a wart covered hag across the street, horror mounting as the woman crumples to the floor.
Sam instantly jumps forwards to check on her, and Dean can feel his brain kick into overdrive as he works on keeping his brother safe. Sam is kneeling next to her, checking her pulse with two fingers pressed to her neck while Dean drags the cart she’d been standing next to in front of them for cover.
“She’s alive,” Sam croaks out, and it’s almost pathetic how relieved Dean is to hear his brother speak again, even if it’s about some suspicious looking old woman.
“We gotta get out of here,” Dean says, keeping his eyes on the alley that is slowly emptying.
“Aurors! The Aurors are coming! Run!” someone screeches over the din, cutting off whatever Sam had been about to respond with.
Suddenly, the woman, who had just been playing sleeping beauty but without the beauty, is wide awake, wrinkled face scrunched up in fear, and she’s dragging her old bones to sprint with surprising grace further down the alley. The call about the Auror’s seem to unite people in their panic, as everyone is suddenly a lot more determined to escape, helping pull people from the ground and dragging them out of sight.
Dean barely has a second to shoot an incredulous look to Sam about the old lady before a series of loud pops sounds from the entrance of the alley and a group of five people in matching robes come running down the alley, wands drawn and expressions grim. On instinct, Dean hides behind the cart and Sam follows his lead instantly.
From the way their name was said, Dean would bet that these Aurors are the witch equivalent of the police, and years of dodging cops has hardwired them both to hide from any mention of them. Dean can hear the sounds of the fight still happening inside the pub, not stopping despite the deep voice of someone yelling at them to “cease immediately”.
The same voice roars out another random word when it’s clear the command isn’t followed through, and then it’s silent.
As the quiet stretches on, Dean risks looking over the cart to see what’s happening and if they can get out of there. Seeing all the robed guys currently preoccupied with holding and searching the unconscious forms of the two guys, another one talking to the barkeep who has seemingly removed his head from his fireplace, Dean motions with two fingers for Sam to start running.
Not taking his eyes off the group, Dean jogs after Sam, only stopping once they are safely back on Diagon Alley and lost in the oblivious crowd only steps away from the carnage inside Knockturn.
(-)
“I take it back when I said that this witch society is advanced, this is more like the middle ages. It’s bad enough they don’t have modern technology or the internet, but not even a public library?” Sam is ranting from the other end of their shared room at the Leaky Cauldron while Dean methodically cleans his gun, parts strewn over the small table placed next to the window seat he’s claimed.
After the disaster that was Knockturn Alley, Sam had suggested getting their stuff from their current motel and booking in at the Leaky Cauldron like Tom had suggested. They had come back a few hours later and Tom had gladly given them the keys to room number 11, told them that if anyone knocked, it would most likely be the day maid coming to clean, and that their dinner would be on the house tonight since they had paid for a week in advance.
“It’s not like we don’t have any options though,” Dean replies absently, lifting the gun up to the weak sunlight streaming in through the yellowed window pane to examine it closely.
“Yeah, and our best bet is to infiltrate the only government building they have to scour records, or to break into the only magical school in Great Britain to see their library. You heard that guy downstairs! Public information just doesn’t exist here, and we’d probably need a small fortune to afford all the materials we’d want,” Sam continues, frustration making his voice come out rougher than usual.
Dean flicks his eyes to where Sam is pacing the length of the room, running a hand through his hair with one hand and using the other to rub at the back of his neck. He clicks his tongue at the sight of Sam so agitated before putting down the gun with a thump that startles Sam enough to send him a glare.
“Calm down, Sammy. You’ve given us the answer right there,” Dean says, nice and slow like he’s trying to calm down a wild animal. With the way Sam’s stressing, he might as well be. “I don’t like the idea of joining the government one bit, but a school? With our resumé’s, that’d be a piece of cake.”
Sam furrows his eyebrows from across the room, and Dean can almost see the wheels turning. Sam disappears into his own head, probably trying to calculate how hard it would actually be, but Dean knows that his idea is a winning one when Sam’s eyes harden determinedly.
“We’d have to put in a lot more research into magical society to make it seem like we’re witches, just foreign ones. Think we can bullshit our way through citizenship papers?” Sam asks before rolling his eyes and snorting. “What’s the bet they don’t even have a registry here for magical citizens.”
Dean grins and picks up his gun to finish cleaning it.
(-)
It’s been a week since he and Sam had set up camp at the Leaky Cauldron, and so far, Dean’s spent half his time in the ‘muggle’ world, swindling pub patrons to convert their pounds to galleons and sickles, just so Sam and him can afford the whole ‘American wizards who are on holiday but have decided to apply for citizenship’ facade.
They’ve got a couple pairs of casual wizard robes, though Dean refuses to wear his since it feels unflattering on him, and he managed to sweet talk a witch in Knockturn into faking him and Sam teaching licences and English muggle passports, which would double as their wizard citizenships since they aren’t ‘purebloods’. Dean had tried not to let the term rankle him but the way it was delivered just didn’t sit right, having earned a few side eyes and someone spitting in his direction when it was brought up in a shady pub further down the alley then Sam and him had been the first time. He had decided to let the whole issue go, since he was outnumbered and not stupid.
If Sam wasn’t with Dean while he was gathering intel, his brother was locked up in the Leaky Cauldron, pouring over every available text on the wizarding world that Dean could get from Flourish and Blotts, a bookstore in Diagon Alley. There had been a particularly helpful series intended for muggle parents when their kid turned out to be magical, which Dean found a lot more interesting than Sam’s favourite, a riveting read called Hogwarts: A History.
Dean’s been starting to get the hang of the whole wizard thing. The more he uses the unfamiliar terms like muggle or galleon, the more comfortable he gets with the situation. He and Sam have been mirroring others as a job for pretty much their entire lives, and adaptability is something Dean likes to think he’s good at.
They’d hashed out their plan for infiltrating Hogwarts thoroughly, but they’d have to kick it into action soon considering the term apparently starts in September, which is less than a month away.
In a stroke of luck so incredible that even Dean had considered it a blessing by God, there were two job openings at Hogwarts for the year ahead. He’d overheard a wizard in Knockturn complaining about the staffing changes at Hogwarts for the year ahead, noting how the previous caretaker of the school had recently vacated the position and that the Study of Ancient Runes professor was retiring and couldn’t find a suitable replacement.
It was almost suspicious how well the job descriptions would fit them. Sam had a near encyclopaedic knowledge of runes and sigils, and the teaching gig would give him a good excuse to get into the library. ‘Hogwarts: A History’ mentioned that the caretaker would essentially be given unlimited access to the school to patrol, which Dean read as free time to explore the place labelled central to wizarding society in Britain.
The only major downside so far to their current situation, apart from Dean’s very uncomfortable realisation that the famed ‘butterbeer’ was something they served to kids since it was barely alcoholic, was that neither him or Sam had magic.
When Sam had read about Ollivander’s, the place that sold wands in Diagon Alley, he had dragged Dean to get them one each. Despite acting like he didn’t want to go, Dean was secretly excited at the idea, the duel they had witnessed on their first day in Knockturn having unlocked a whole new level of cool in his head.
Ollivander was a nice guy overall, if really weird. He had stared at Dean for a solid fifteen seconds when he had asked about getting a wand, before smiling with those unsettlingly silver eyes and sicking a weirdly invasive measuring tape on the both of them.
They had spent hours there, waving every type of wand imaginable. Sam had seemed to put his expectations lower than Dean had, considering his eyes had hardened over time but he didn’t exactly look surprised when Ollivander declared that he had no more wands to provide them with, but Dean was still the one to drag them out of the shop with a galleon shoved into Ollivander’s unwilling hand for his trouble.
They would probably have to at least pretend to be functioning wizards though to secure their jobs, which sent them into the most dodgy second hand wand store they could find, where Dean handed a small pile of sickles to the bored clerk, and Sam picked out two decent looking wands disinterestedly.
The one Sam had claimed for his own had a tag that placed it as a 10 inch holly wood with a dragon heartstring core. Dean’s own was a cedar wood wand with a unicorn hair core, sitting at a respectable 11 inches. He still finds the weight of the wand in his pocket weird, especially since it falls out whenever he isn’t paying attention, which has led to a few awkward encounters where a confused witch or wizard has handed it to him with an incredulous expression.
Which brings Dean to where he is now, sitting in a private room at the back of the Leaky Cauldron with Sam, dressed in their nicest wizarding robes, fake teaching licences and resumés filled with fake references put into neat folders in front of them, as they wait for Headmaster Albus Dumbledore to show up for their interview. The big guy himself, if any of the awed whispers that follow his name in the alley are anything to go by.
Sam’s knee starts bouncing underneath the table and he brings a hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear. They’re technically almost half an hour early to their allotted time, but Tom had swept them into the room excitedly and left a tray of food for them, exclaiming about how he was honoured to host Albus Dumbledore in the Leaky Cauldron thanks to them.
Their punctuality, of course, is nothing in the face of Sam’s superior ability to overthink, so Dean opens his mouth to distract him.
“You said that Hogwarts has a bad rep after the death of that kid last year, right? That grandma I was talking to yesterday mentioned how no one really wants to apply to work there anymore, meaning that we’ve got a pretty good chance at this. Stop stressing,” Sam raises an eyebrow at Dean as he speaks, before rolling his eyes pissily.
“I know that Dean, I did my research. I’m just… This Dumbledore guy is like a god to these wizards, you know? Even with the smear campaign the newspapers are doing against him, he’s still said to be the most powerful wizard alive. Apparently even their Dark Lord was scared to face him head on.”
That was another thing that had confused Dean at the beginning. After their excursion into Knockturn, he and Sam had put a lot of research into the Death Eater’s that had ended up causing that duel, and wasn’t Dean surprised to see that there were essentially wizard terrorists, who hated the muggles and any wizard or witch born from them. There had been a war because of them, and only some Henry Porter kid had ended it as an infant after somehow surviving an insta-kill spell. He’s not trying to discredit the kids achievements or anything, he wouldn’t dream of it, it’s just a little unbelievable.
Before Dean can open his mouth to further reassure Sam, or maybe to make fun of him, the door to their room opens and in steps a man that Dean can only assume is Albus Dumbledore.
The first thing Dean notices is the abomination that is the guy’s outfit. He’s no fashion expert, but it really does look like a unicorn vomited rainbow glitter all over Albus Dumbledore’s billowing robes. Blue eyes regard them casually over half-moon spectacles perched on his face hazardously, and he ducks his head a little as he steps inside the doorway, to avoid knocking his absurd wizard hat off his head, his long white hair flowing freely and his beard swaying with his movement.
Sam stands up as Dumbledore seems to float over to the table they’re seated at, and Dean follows after a split second of hesitation. The guy looks anything but intimidating, giving more of a grandfatherly air.
“Dean and Sam Winchester, I presume?” he offers, voice light.
Sam, ever the teacher's pet, sticks out his hand for Dumbledore to shake. “That would be us,” Sam confirms, before gesturing to himself and Dean with his free hand. “I’m Sam, and this is my brother Dean.”
Dean offers his own hand but remains silent. When Dumbledore reaches an aged hand to shake Sam’s and then his, Dean tries to ignore the frailty of his skin. It almost feels like Dumbledore would wither away if a decently strong breeze blew their way, wrinkled and papery thin in the way only old people are.
“Albus Dumbledore,” he provides as he sits down, his robes settling neatly around him.
Dean watches with increasing anticipation as Dumbledore picks up a biscuit from the tray Tom left them and chew on it with an aged aura. Sam must be waiting for the guy to speak, but the silence is beginning to stretch on, but Dean is anything but patient, so he decides to start the interview himself.
“We understand you’re here to interview us for the job positions available at Hogwarts?” Dean begins, using the acting skills he’s been perfecting for years and putting on his most harmless professional persona. “Caretaker and Ancient Runes Professor?”
Dumbledore locks eyes with him after he speaks, and there’s a hint of approval in those grandfatherly old eyes. He must have been playing the waiting game, to see if either of them would say anything, and Dean is actually grateful for his own impatience this time. Dean subtly steps on Sam’s foot under the table, wordlessly warning him about the sly nature of the wizarding worlds so called god.
“Indeed, I am. Your resumé’s proved flawless, but I like to personally interview any prospective staff,” Dumbledore begins, and Dean picks up on the implied message. Dumbledore obviously doesn’t trust them, but it makes sense. So far, Dean and Sam are just two upstart Americans who just so happen to have the perfect qualifications for the job.
Sam takes the chance to jump in. “About the positions, sir, my brother and I had a few questions for you,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows on the table and putting on his puppy dog look. “Mainly surrounding safety measures after Hogwarts last few years. Our experience in America has never had this level of danger, you see.”
Dean desperately fights down a smirk at Sam lying so blatantly, thinking about the werewolf they were hunting just under a month ago, which is by far the least dangerous thing they’ve encountered in the past few years. Sam is pulling out the big cards early on though, trying to concrete the idea that Hogwarts would be lucky to have them.
In response to Sam’s concern, Dumbledore’s blue eyes begin to twinkle. It catches him off guard, the fact that the guy's eyes actually seem to twinkling at them, so he almost misses what Dumbledore says next.
“Of course. I don’t mean to brag, but Hogwarts houses some of the most intricate wards in the entirety of Britain, meaning there will be no unwanted visitors,” Dumbledore explains, though the way he delivers it is still airy and casual.
“After last year’s,” Dumbledore pauses here, eyes hardening slightly, “tragedy, the Ministry of Magic has inquired into the safety measures placed within Hogwarts. With a few minor adjustments, the school has once again been declared safe.”
Dean narrows his eyes slightly, picking up on the odd way Dumbledore talked about the Ministry of Magic’s inquiry at Hogwarts. A glance from his peripherals shows that Sam picked up on it too.
“We understand, thank you,” Sam says, deceptively gentle and understanding. “Do you have any questions about our capabilities?”
Dumbledore seems to like that question, if the small and grandfatherly smile that crosses his aged face says anything. “Just two. Why did you become a professor, Sam?” he asks, leaning forwards slightly, peering at Sam over his spectacles.
Sam seems to consider the question for a long moment, before looking down at his lap with a small smile. “I had a teacher when I was around these kids’ age. He helped me a lot with understanding who I am and who I wanted to be, even without him really knowing it. Just him being a teacher and offering his ear was enough to help me through some rough times in my academic career. I guess I'm just hoping that I can be that person to the next generation.”
Dean raises his eyebrows at Sam’s honesty. He vaguely remembers Sam talking about the guy a while back on a case at one of their old highschool’s. He turns his head to get a better look at the expression on his brother’s face, and notes with a heavy heart that Sam really means what he said.
He’s always known that Sam wanted to be something normal, and that was only concreted with his stint at Stanford with Jess. Dean sometimes, when there's such a genuine and vulnerable everything about Sam, feels guilt suffocating him at having torn Sam away from what he really wanted to do, but he’s practised enough to swallow it down.
Not having noticed Dean’s heavy gaze, Dumbledore smiles at Sam, though Dean’s starting to get sick of the whole grandfatherly thing going on. “How wonderful, my boy.”
Dean tries not to let his grimace show on his face at the term of endearment, though Sam probably enjoyed it like the starved teacher's pet he is. “And the second question?” Dean prompts, suddenly not wanting to be in Dumbledore’s presence any longer. He’s been thrown off guard enough today and it’s really starting to grate on him.
Dumbledore smiles like he’s got some secret. “The second one is for you, Dean. What made you apply for the position of caretaker?”
Dean really doesn’t want to lean into the same excuse Sam went for, mostly because he certainly didn't dream about being a glorified janitor when he was a kid. So he goes for the next best option, being concise.
“Because Sam wanted to go to Hogwarts,” he says simply, tilting his head in his brother’s direction while keeping eye contact with Dumbledore.
Despite his answer not being as sickeningly sweet as Sam’s, Dumbledore seems to find Dean’s answer satisfying enough, eyes twinkling yet again as he looks between the two of them approvingly. Dean can feel Sam’s bicep briefly touch his, and he feels slightly more at ease. Even though he didn’t spill some sob story like his brother, his words really did ring true. Where Sam goes, Dean follows. Sometimes it feels like the whole world was written just in proof of that.
“I think this interview has been very informative. Thank you, boys,” Dumbledore says, interrupting Dean’s inner monologue. He stands up, and this time Dean really can’t hide his grimace at the abomination of colours that meet his eyes. Shaking both of their hands sagely, Dumbledore heads towards the door.
When he reaches the threshold, he turns and makes eye contact with Dean and Sam where they’ve stood to see Dumbledore off. Dean feels oddly vulnerable under that stare, the twinkle and grandfatherly air seeming to disappear as he regards them calculatingly.
“You’ll be receiving an owl with information on how and when to arrive at Hogwarts in the following few days. Staff are required to be at Hogwarts a week before term starts for lesson planning, and are expected to attend dinner at the Great Hall daily,” Dumbledore says jauntily, breezy attitude once again firmly back in place, before stepping out the door and letting it swing shut behind him, his firm “good day,” echoing throughout the room.
Dean stands next to his brother silently for a good five seconds after Dumbledore’s gone before turning to Sam, a wide and excited grin stretching across his face. “Think we got the job?”
Sam’s only response is a snort.