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the-restricted-section · 5 months ago

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Hear No Evil

Gen, 2,403 words. Sharp receives a cryptic message from their wayward fifth year, Dylan Fairchild, and races off to see what mess they've gotten themselves into this time.

Sharp knew it was going to be a long night when he spotted the owl at his window.

Though it had grown easier for him to acknowledge over the years, the sad reality was that few had a reason to communicate with him anymore. His parents had fallen decades ago, victims of their shared career before they could give him any siblings. So-called friends had turned their backs, dispersed, or become mere casual acquaintances after his discharge, all of them too busy - or perhaps too disgusted - to send him more than the socially required holiday card. The Ministry had ceased calling him in as an advisor right around the time Sharp began publicly bemoaning the skills of the next generation (a mere coincidence, surely) and Pippin knew better than to send him ingredients by owl. If a house elf couldn't deliver it than it was too fragile or volatile for an airborne journey. Any missives from his colleagues would have come the same way.

Which left… Sharp honestly didn't know. He eyed the bird now pecking impatiently at the glass, casting a quick Revelio to spot any of the more obvious traps. The magic came back clean though. If it flew like an owl, hooted like an owl, glared in annoyance like an owl…

It was probably a paranoid ex-Auror.

With a sigh Sharp gave a casual flick of his wand to open the window. The beast dropped a bit of scroll on his desk and immediately swooped back through the window, not even bothering to wait around for a treat. Sharp supposed he couldn't blame him. He noticed though, as the owl took flight south towards the Quidditch Pitch, that it wasn't one of Hogwarts' standard carriers. The fact that "bit of a scroll' was a literal description - just a scrap torn from a larger piece, messily scribbled on like the writer hadn't access to a stable surface - only heightened his interest. And his worry.

Sharp's heartbeat kicked into high-gear when he recognized the handwriting.

Professor,

I'm a bit off the road to Hogsmeade and request your assistance. Please come as soon as you're able. You can follow the owl.

Dylan

With a string of curses Sharp watched the bird disappearing on the horizon, casting a quick tracking charm that only just caught its tail. Still muttering about bloody birds and wayward students, he hobbled out of the dungeons as quickly as his leg would allow.

"The fool child better not be dead," he said to no one in particular, but a despondent looking suit of armor saluted as he passed.

***

It was, all things considered, not a pleasant outing. A steady drizzle began as soon as he'd left the comforts of the castle and, not wanting to waste his magic on anything superfluous in case there was a battle up ahead, Sharp grit his teeth and allowed the cold to soak through his suit, without even a cloak to temper the chill. The rain had driven most everyone else indoors, leaving the path feeling dangerously isolated.

Like, he thought unbidden, the moment before an ambush.

But Sharp shook his head. Dylan had given him no reason to distrust them and he would sooner take up employment at Zonko's than extend his paranoia to the children under his care. So it was with a resigned air that he followed the wisps of magic his tracking spell left behind, swallowing down every grunt of pain as the route took him away from the cobbled stones and into wild, uneven territory.

Eventually the tracks grew denser until, suddenly, it shot high into the sky. Sharp watched the owl soar out of his reach and canceled the magic with a sarcastic farewell. Wand at the ready and all too aware that this terrain was not in his favor, he parted the bushes before him, prepared for whatever his student might be facing.

Luckily, there were no Dark wizards holding them at wandpoint. No poachers, or centaurs upset over magical children traipsing so near their territory either. Dylan sat on a low stone fence with their head bowed, the parchment roll they'd clearly torn from sitting on their knee, turning to pulp.

Still, Sharp took a moment to assess his surroundings. They were deeper into the forest than he usually preferred to go, though not so deep that beasts ruled the area. There was an abandoned house off to his left and a crude garden, now overgrown, becoming muddy beneath his feet. It was clear that no one had passed this way recently but them and Sharp leveled his student with a stern look. It was mostly for show though - something was clearly wrong.

"You're unharmed?" he asked.

Dylan nodded, slowly, slow enough that Sharp took matters into his own hands. A quick diagnostic revealed nothing of true concern though: the general tiredness that would accompany any outing into the forest, a couple of bruises, and the beginnings of a mild cold. Sharp made a mental note to give them PepperUp as soon as they were back at the castle.

"What then? Why call me out here?" Tread lightly, he reminded himself. You do not wish to teach them to fear your retribution. Better they ask for help needlessly than not at all. "I am not… mad. Merely confused."

In explanation, they jerked their head behind them, like an old, rusty puppet being wrenched on its string. Wand raised, Sharp stepped around them and hissed in a sharp breath.

A body lay in the dirt, one arm reaching out like they were begging his student to fix this tragedy. The man's face was pressed into the dirt, legs crumpled beneath him, and Sharp's first, uncharitable action was to turn his wand on Dylan. After all, a man was dead and there was only one person at the scene of the crime. One very powerful person.

…but no. Mere seconds after the thought Sharp tempered it. Instincts kept you alive; observation kept innocents out of jail. The stench wafting up from the corpse put it at a week old, at the least, and there were no obvious signs of violence on his person. Unless his student had been practicing Unforgivables in their free time they weren't the culprit here.

But Sharp already knew that.

"You found him?" he asked, something in his chest still loosening when Dylan nodded.

"It was a mandrake," they said, voice hollow, head hanging low. "I found a letter in their pocket, a friend… or a sister? Someone who cared for him, warning him to wear his earmuffs. I knew the cry was fatal, but…"

But hearing that in Herbology was different than stumbling across the reality on your walk. Sharp ground his teeth, irrationally angry at this stranger for daring to die where his student might find them. Of course, that begged the question of why Dylan was out here in the first place.

Threat assessed, Sharp finally took a moment to catalog all the other… concerning details. Like the fact that they were just on the cusp of nightfall and their wayward new fifth year was mere yards from the Forbidden Forest. Technically they’d broken no rules - not yet - but why a student who, as far as he’d been able to see, enjoyed a wealth of popularity would be out wandering alone in such miserable weather was beyond him.

Notable too was their choice of attire. The whole school knew that Dylan had lost their belongings in the dragon attack, however, few were aware that Hogwarts had covered replacing those supplies, given that Dylan was both muggleborn and orphaned. For centuries the faculty had ensured that a fund existed for just such rare occurrences, though it was far from substantial and thus not well advertised. The cost of books, wand, robes, various class materials, not to mention the bare personal essentials a teenager would need… it had been costly, even with the professors pitching in personal funds for what Dylan ‘needed.’ Sharp would wager they still had no idea that Fig had been the one to purchase their owl, or Weasley a handsome travel chest, or himself a silver cauldron that would keep them from being teased among the other, richer fifth years. The end result had, happily, been a well-supplied student, though they had unanimously agreed to put off purchasing a winter wardrobe until the weather officially turned.

Which begged the question of where Dylan had gotten not just that winter cloak, but the battle garb underneath.

This child keeps too many secrets for having arrived three months ago. Even for a Hogwarts student.

With a sigh and a pinch to the bridge of his nose Sharp acknowledged that he was unlikely to successfully uncover any of those secrets while Dylan was in this state. It was hard sometimes - like right now - to remember that not everyone was a grizzled, deadened ex-auror who’d seen corpses on a regular basis. Normal people tended to react badly to such things. Children were traumatized.

Where the bloody hell is Fig when you need him?

With an awkward shuffle and a grunt of pain Sharp managed to seat himself on the same low wall as Dylan, close enough that he hoped it offered some comfort. Maybe it did because after a moment the suspicious sniffling noises that Dylan had been making tapered off and they drew the sleeve of their robe across their eyes. They peeked out from that sleeve and Sharp was relieved to see something other than that blank look in their eyes.

“Sorry, sir,” they said.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said gruffly. “Except for your absurd lack of common sense in coming out here alone, but we will discuss that when... well. We will discuss it later. For now, would you care to learn a new spell?”

That got their attention and Sharp resisted a chuckle. It was neither the time nor the place, but Dylan was so focused on academics at times that they made a mockery of most Ravenclaws.

“It’s a simple wand movement,” he said, showing them the twist in the wrist. “Now, watch your pronunciation: sepeli mortuum.”

They both turned and watched as the man’s corpse rose gently into the air, his clothing lengthening until they became shrouds that he was wrapped him. All the while the dirt directly beneath him fell away until it was deep enough for burial. He rested there, now straightened and peaceful, as the soil flowed back in.

Sharp caught a look at Dylan’s face and was dismayed to find a blooming horror there.

“But--that’s--” They shook their head. “His body should go to his loved ones! And who buries someone in a decaying garden?!”

I do, Sharp nearly replied, but luckily he recalled once again that Dylan was muggleborn. “Ah. Calm yourself. A cultural difference, I believe? Here in the wizarding world people care little where they are buried, or if they do a simple excavation charm will do the trick. No, what you will want to return to the family is this.”

The end of the spell was already floating the man’s wand towards Sharp. He pressed it into Dylan’s hands.

“Oh,” they whispered. They ran hands over the wand, reverent, and Sharp too bowed his head briefly in respect. “Their friend’s name is Tasmina,” they said, gesturing with the now pulp-like letter, “but she didn’t mention his name. They must have been close, forgoing a greeting like that… maybe she should get his wand? I hope she doesn’t regret calling him hopeless...”

She would. If Sharp had a knut for every colleague who regretted something stupid said before a loved one died he’d have quit teaching long ago. Dylan didn’t need to hear that though.

“Take it to Olivander,” he said. “When you’re ready. He will know the wand and, by extension, who it belonged to.”

“Shouldn’t you…?” Dylan began extending the wand back towards him, but Sharp shook his head.

“When you’re ready,” he repeated.

They’d need closure of some kind and this, unfortunately, was the best he could give them.

They sat in the rain for a while longer and Sharp did not complain about the state of his clothes, or the horrific ache that had settled into his leg. He let Dylan sit with this death - senseless, wholly preventable - and when they stood Sharp waited as they cut a handful of sodden flowers to lay on the grave. Together they made the long walk back to the castle, neither saying a word.

“Infirmary,” he instructed. “No - don’t argue. You may not be injured, but you should not be alone tonight. Give me your things. You can retrieve them on the 'morrow. Nurse Blainey will ensure you get a hot bath and a good nights sleep.” Well, his potions would ensure the latter, but what Dylan didn’t know was going into their nightly tea wouldn’t embarrass them. No doubt there would be nightmares tonight, though the child was too proud to admit it.

“I--alright. Thank you, Professor.” They made eye contact with them for the first time that night. “Really, thanks for coming. In the rain and everything. I’d originally meant to write to Professor Fig before I remembered he’s at the Ministry, but I’m glad I got you instead.”

Sharp raised an eyebrow. “Ah. So I was your second choice, was I?”

“What? No! I didn’t mean--”

“I know what you meant, foolish child.” He awkwardly laid a hand atop their hair, unsure if the teasing had worked until he caught sight of a small smile. “Go rest before I commit your favoritism to memory.”

“Yes, sir. Good night.”

They entered the infirmary and Sharp only relaxed when he saw Blainey bustling over to assess them. Standing on the landing, he looked down at the wand and the letter he’d promised to keep safe for the night. The latter was little more than smeared ink at this point, but Sharp could just make out the words ‘Mandrake leaf,’ ‘lightning storm,’ and a familiar incantation. He resisted the urge to groan.

Of course the blasted child would come across instructions on becoming an animagus. That’s the last thing we need…

Innumerable secrets. Expensive battle garb. Stumbling across dead bodies. Now, insight into a wholly dangerous endeavor they'd no doubt be tempted by once the shock of this encounter wore off. Yes, he’d have to keep an even closer eye on Dylan Fairchild.

“An easy enough task,” he murmured sarcastically before limping off to bed.

Still, that would be a problem for another day. For now, at least, they were safe.

#Professor Sharp #Aesop Sharp #Hogwarts Legacy #Hogwarts Legacy fic #Hogwarts Legacy MC

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the-restricted-section · 2 years ago

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"I've decided that whenever this blog gets hate I'm going to write a drabble with Sirona in it!"

You are literally my idol.

#Hogwarts Legacy #kind messages #:D :D :D

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the-restricted-section · 2 years ago

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I actually like sirona and she doesn't get enough love, other than hate posts can you do drabbles and stuff just because please?

I intend to! Unfortunately, I'm a slow writer with a busy life, so even drabbles take a while to complete, but I've got lots of stuff I want to write, particularly for Sirona, Sharp, and I suspect the Slytherin boys once I get a little farther into the main campaign. (I'm as slow a gamer as I am writer lol.)

And if anyone has anything in particular they'd like to see I'll do my best to oblige <3

#Hogwarts Legacy #asks #Sirona Ryan

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the-restricted-section · 2 years ago

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I've decided that whenever this blog gets hate I'm going to write a drabble with Sirona in it!

Gen, 1,138, Sirona + MC (Dylan Fairchild) - Dylan tries to thank Sirona for her help against Rookwood

Dylan stood outside of Floriblunders' Florist, dithering and trying desperately not to appear like they were. After all, it wouldn't due to have the "Hero of Hogsmeade" - as one inebriated gentlemen had hailed them - looking like a fool outside a flower shop. Maybe it was better to just order something by owl? Or better yet, forget this whole, impulsive idea.

Problem was, Dylan may not have remembered much about their mother, but they did recall the early lesson dolled out during mealtimes, or out on the street, or whenever another child had been cruel to them: be kind, even when it's hard. It simply didn't feel right, approaching another for a favor without something to offer in turn, especially when they'd already done Dylan a kindness. Merlin, Sirona might have saved their life. Picking up flowers for her seemed like the very least they could do.

But how did you even ask for that? "Good afternoon! I'd like a bouquet that says, 'Thank you for running off the goblin-aligned Dark Wizard last month and do you mind if I interrogate you for contacts?'"

Dylan snorted, the imagined look on the florist's face nearly worth it. But they shook their head. A quick Tempus showed that it would be dark soon and though the Three Broomsticks would be open late into the night, the last thing they wanted was to bring Ranrok up in a crowd. No, better to do this before the regulars came shambling in. With a shake of their head Dylan pasted on a smile, hefted a rather absurd number of galleons, and pointed to the first, impressive-looking flowers as they came through the door.

Well, it was the thought that counts, right? Besides, if Sirona hated it, they could always repurpose... whatever these were for potion ingredients. No doubt Professor Sharp would have something useful up his sleeve.

Only vaguely satisfied with Plan B, Dylan made their way down the cobblestone streets, trying to navigate around the massive arrangement. The florist had been thrilled at the purchase - something about bandits interrupting trade supplies and harming business. Dylan made a mental note to look into it - and had included some rather beautiful paper for free, complete with an intricately tied bow. The end result was bigger than Dylan's head though and it was a relief to shoulder into the Three Broomsticks, setting the bouquet on the counter with a huff.

Sirona was there, one eyebrow creeping into her hair as she surveyed the small garden on her bar.

"Well, hello there. Who's the lucky person?"

"You."

Dylan laughed. Okay, they may not have been able to rattle the florist, but Sirona was even better. They hadn't known her long, but already Dylan liked her no-nonsense attitude wrapped around this warm, comforting center. They knew from experience that Sirona would gut anyone who threatened her patrons - let alone her friends - and that was more reassuring than all the Hogwarts residents who had shot Dylan well-meaning, but ultimately hesitant smiles. That probably would have been just fine for an average student, but they'd learned hard and fast that they needed to cultivate a stronger support network.

Unfortunately, Sirona looked as if she regretted ever letting Dylan through the door. "Look, kid, I can't in good conscious say I'm flattered, but--"

Dylan laughed again, gesturing like they were swatting away a particularly bothersome fly. "It's just a gift, Sirona. A 'thank you' for helping me out last time I was here. Nothing more, but nothing less either."

"Oh." Her whole body relaxed at those words, a small, self-deprecating smile gracing her lips. "In that case, they're beautiful." With a wave of her wand Sirona summoned a vase filled with water, the bouquet unwrapping in midair to settle in its new home. Dylan hummed in appreciation. Not just at the magic, but the vase itself. They wouldn't say that the Three Broomsticks was ugly by any means, but it was... homey; well-worn like your favorite pair of boots after years of travel. Dylan was no connoisseur, but the detailed crystal now catching the light appeared to be of an excellent quality.

Sirona noticed the look. "My mother's," she said dryly. "I've got a whole closet of her disgustingly extravagant stuff. Everything that doesn't fit in the house anymore, even with the extension charms."

"That's funny, I was thinking about my own mother when I bought this."

"Did she teach you about flowers? These are very well chosen."

"Uh..."

Sirona paused in rearranging the bouquet, her eyes narrowing at Dylan's sheepish expression. "Don't tell me you chose this at random?"

"Well..." Odd, had it gotten hotter in the Three Broomsticks? Dylan rubbed at the back of their neck, looking around, sure that the crowd must have grown... but no. There were actually fewer people than when they'd first walked in. They gave an awkward cough. "Sorry?"

Sirona just huffed; not quite a laugh, but close enough. "What are your divination grades like? I'd wager you have at least a mild touch of The Sight if you were really drawn to these without realizing. Let's see... transformation," she said, pointing to collection of calla lilies. "Rather fitting for me, hmm? Pink roses to express gratitude, and yellow for friendship..." Sirona dipped down to breathe deeply, seeming to savor their scent, and Dylan found themselves sinking into a feeling of contentment. Yes, that was all quite appropriate.

"And these?" they asked, fingering the petals of a deep purple flower; so deep as to almost be--

"The black dahlia," Sirona said, her eyes snapping open. They zeroed in on Dylan. "They herald coming danger."

...oh.

Dylan swallowed. "Right. Okay. I... well. I think it's already here."

From the dragon that had emerged from the clouds, to the shifty wizards populating Hogsmeade's streets, it seemed that everywhere Dylan went danger was dogging their steps, to the point where they couldn't even settle in to study without their wand in one hand and a Wiggenweld in easy reach. It's not as if they'd thought that danger would suddenly disappear, but hearing that their premonition to Professor Onai might be true after all...

"You know," Dylan said, swallowing, "my Divination grades are very good."

The look Sirona shot them said the joke had fallen flat, but she nevertheless turned and pulled them two mugs of butterbeer. After sliding one over - giving Dylan something to do with their hands, thank Merlin - she plucked one of the dahlias from the vase, snapped the stem, and tucked the flower into the buttonhole of Dylan's jacket, her movements determinedly furious.

"Own it," she said, clinking their mugs so that the foam went flying. "Let the danger come. You've got friends to face it with."

That's all they'd ever wanted.

Mustering up a shaky smile, Dylan toasted to the future.

#Hogwarts Legacy #Hogwarts Legacy fic #Sirona Ryan

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the-restricted-section · 2 years ago

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This just in: local Potions Master, ADHD icon, unable to stand still while killing time with colleague. Prefers rocking and two-stepping to small talk.

In unrelated news, a Hogwarts student was very nearly read the riot act for being in a restricted section of the castle by - coincidentally - a Potions Master.

More at 11:00.

#Hogwarts Legacy #Aesop Sharp #Professor Sharp #Professor Weasley

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the-restricted-section · 2 years ago

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Okay, but that conversation with Professor Fig before you both head to the Map Chamber is actually hilarious:

MC: So while you were off I made friends with a portrait and he introduced me to his famous, retired Auror niece.

Fig: Come again?

MC: Yeah and then she took me to Azkaban--

Fig: She wHAT?

MC: Well, we had to solve the mystery of Jackdaw's death, didn't we?

Fig: Who?

MC: A ghost. Murdered ghost. Sorta? I mean, he kinda walked into that beheading... and stupidly left all the treasure...

Fig: ...

MC: Anyway, turns out he stole them from Peeves who, in turn, stole them from Merlin only knows where.

Fig: "Them"?

MC: The missing pages, of course! I've already unlocked the secret chamber beneath Hogwarts and had a chat with Rackham about my untapped potential as a user of Ancient Magic. We were just waiting for you to get back, so I took out a couple of Ashwinder camps, an acromantula nest - that thing was huge, ugh - and solved a couple of Hogwarts' other, well-kept secrets while I was waiting. Was your time equally productive, sir?

Fig:

#Hogwarts Legacy #Professor Fig

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the-restricted-section · 2 years ago

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Loving this post, OP! 💕

Most of the student body (and many of the professors, frankly) would be shocked to learn that Sharp was very nearly sorted into Hufflepuff. The diligence and attention to detail he imparts to others now have always been a core part of his personality, very nearly tipping him into the hardworking House. However, he felt a responsibility to his family, coming from a long line of Slytherins, and that, along with his ambitions, helped the hat decide.

Sharp does love cats and had hoped, years ago, that one would be his animagus form. Not only does he feel a particular kinship with them, but they’re perfect for Auror work: small, fast, silent, capable of squeezing into a number of hard-to-reach places, and nondescript enough that they’re useful for stakeouts. Unfortunately, he was never able to complete the process to discover his form. He holds a deep respect for those who have managed it.

Technically speaking Sharp is not a Potions Master. He’s an ex-Auror with a wealth of knowledge in potions, more than enough to teach a standard 1-7 year course, as well as specific knowledge in battle elixirs. The ministry has no say in Hogwarts’ hiring practices and this experience was more than enough for Black. However, Potions Master is an actual title bestowed by a Guild, highly sought after and very difficult to obtain. Sharp is called Hogwarts’ Potions Master by the students the same way an ignorant class might call a higher ed teacher “Dr” even if they don’t have a PhD. It’s... a sore spot in the potions community and Sharp is forever grateful when others don’t bring it up.

He’s deathly allergic to Ashwinder eggs. Only the matron is aware of this - in case Sharp is incapacitated and would require one of his own, modified potions. He stipulated a moderately powerful vow of secrecy from her before agreeing to teach. It’s simply too lethal a weakness to risk that information getting out.

All the professors dress nicely around the castle, but Sharp pays particular attention to his wardrobe. Wearing a three-piece suit in a subject better suited for second-hand, heavily charmed robes (potions gets very messy, and that’s not even taking into account Weasley’s experiments) is born from his (mostly) subconscious desire to be treated with respect, not fear. Sharp is well aware that his limp, his scar, and his overall demeanor can be off-putting, to put it mildly, and he wants only to intimidate when necessary, never scare. This is especially true for the first years. Silly as it is, he often fondly recalls the first time an 11yo Ravenclaw complimented his tie.

This man has a great appreciation for food, largely due to all the time he’s spent undercover, or putting up with horrendous conditions in the name of hunting Dark Wizards. Enough edible food to fill one’s stomach? Glorious. The kind of food the Hogwarts house elves produce? Absolutely divine. It's a privilege too many others take for granted. Sharp makes sure to thank the elves regularly and makes everyone happy by requesting new dishes every few weeks. His seat at the head table easily sports the most diverse cuisine.

As a general rule, Sharp isn’t particularly sociable and if you catch him outside of his comfort zones (classroom, a battlefield) he is supremely awkward. He’s learned to hide it decently over the years and his reputation as the gruff, non-nonsense type has certainly helped, but try to engage the man in small talk and oh boy, it’s like pulling live venom from an acromantula - with only marginally less danger. The exception to this is Professor Garlick who, through sheer optimism and a touch of obliviousness, has talked the man through that awkward phase. Mostly. It took a few years. And also a shared love of potions-worthy plants.

His difficulty ‘hanging out’ isn’t helped by the fact that Sharp considers himself to be “uncultured” (his words, not others’). He knew what he wanted to do from a very young age and stuck with it, ruthlessly, until injuries forced him to stop. The end result is that Sharp knows little beyond Auror work and potions: no crafts, no music, his reading preferences are almost purely pedagogical, etc. Fig keeps trying to engage him in different hobbies, with varying degrees of success.

(Surprisingly, knitting went over quite well. A task that allows him to think while still keeping his hands busy, producing a useful end product? Excellent. Hogsmeade’s charity organization still has no idea who drops off an assortment of hats, gloves, and scarves every few months, all of them woven with powerful warming charms.)

Sharp’s badge is easily his most prized possession, a symbol of both his success and his failure. He knows it’s foolish that, in the event of an emergency, he would grab it over any of his rare ingredients or potions, but then, he’s only human.

No one seems to realize that Sharp wasn’t friends with the partner he lost. They had a purely professional relationship and, frankly, Sharp knew little about the man despite working together for years. He’d been told by mentors that it was better that way. Don’t get too close. Don’t let your emotions make you sloppy. What a load of shit. All he had now was the memory of a man he barely knew and the guilt whenever someone offered up their condolences. Everyone always assumes he’s a better man than he was - someone not only capable of having saved him, but good enough to have cared for him while he was alive too.

He’s working on changing that now, with the students.

One fifth year in particular.

Asking for Aesop headcannon!

It's interesting writing for a character in such a rich world with a pretty big blank slate for their own history. It's honestly a first for me.

Naturally you build your own headcannon's regardless of the fandom or character and I was just wondering what are some things people have created and would want to share?

I will go first:

1. His parents were both Auror's and died doing the job. It's why he worked tirelessly to be one of the best, why he took the loss of his partner so badly, and why he seems to discourage any student wanting to go down that career path.

2. He loves cats. Like, really really, loves cats.

#Hogwarts Legacy #Aesop Sharp #Professor Sharp #headcanons

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the-restricted-section · 2 years ago

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Bracing for Impact

Gen. 2,697 words. During the holidays, Professor Sharp and Professor Fig discover a gift left by the player character (Dylan Fairchild).

First Hogwarts Legacy fic! Hope you enjoy~

Christmas at Hogwarts was always an extravagant affair, usually involving more merriment than sense. Three times this week Sharp had been forced to quell illicit brewing in his class, with twice as many attempts popping up during lab times. A stolen fwoop feather was one thing, but attempting the complex Amortentia underneath their cloaks? Plans to slip a bit into a crush's drink, with dreams of an early holiday gift dancing in their heads? Honestly, when he wasn't keeping his students' limbs intact he was bemoaning their lack of decorum, to say nothing of overall sense. Sharp couldn't remember the last time a student had truly impressed him.

No... wait. That wasn't quite right anymore, was it? Their newest fifth year may have only been with them a few months, but already they'd made quite the name for themselves. Sharp had entered the faculty room back in September with the intent of subtly bragging to the others that he'd finally found a potions prodigy - or at least someone with enough diligence and critical thinking skills to make use of his instruction. He'd been more than a little surprised to find the others already singing their praises: competitions won in Charms, duels in Defense, the delicate handling of plants in Herbology, and excellent flying skills to boot, if their little joy-ride around the castle was any indication.

Well, at least he wasn't the only instructor the cheeky brat was inclined to disobey.

Then, of course, there was the matter of their mysterious arrival and the rumors surrounding the journey. Dragons, ruins, even a death...

Only one other person was aware of the truth. Luckily for Sharp, he appeared determined to hound his every step tonight.

"Do you really intend to follow me all the way to the dungeons?"

Fig smiled, taking leisurely steps that somehow managed to make it look like he wasn't slowing his pace to match a limp - a talent Sharp's pride was disgustingly grateful for. He took a moment to look up at the garlands strung across stone, brimming with white and red flowers. Raising his wand, Fig added fairy lights with a murmured incantation, successfully brightening the otherwise gloomy journey. He turned to Sharp with that same smile still in place, eyes softer than they had any right to be when looking at a bitter, grizzled ex-Auror in a perpetually grumpy mood.

"Come now, Aesop. Can't I accompany my colleague on a late night stroll? Wish him the tidings of the season?" Fig's smile grew. "Perhaps weasel a nightcap out of his personal stash?"

Sharp snorted. "You know damn well I've only cheap liquor. Do you prefer dust, or spider webs as an additive?" He'd grappled with his fare share of vices over the years, no doubt about it, but drink had never been one of them. Sharp had learned early - and brutally - what could happen to an Auror perpetually inhibited by drink and he'd sworn, all the way back in his training days, that he'd never travel that path. Not even the pain of his leg had driven him to go back on that promise.

Speaking of the blasted thing... Sharp hid a grimace as they descended another flight of stairs, the fake snow that fell from the ceiling doing nothing for his precarious balance. He must have lost some of his subtly alongside his reflexes because Fig's smile dropped. He vanished the snow with another sharp wave of his wand, pocketed it, and offered Sharp his elbow.

To the man's credit, he weathered Sharp's glare like the expert he was, only dropping his arm a long moment later. He huffed.

"A drink would mellow you, my friend," Fig muttered, but there was no bite in the remark. If anything, Sharp's shoulders relaxed. Better that then pity. "I stand by what I've said. Why should I need an excuse to visit you? Especially during the holidays?"

"But...?" Sharp prompted dryly.

Fig sighed. "But I thought it prudent to take this time to discuss our rather... illustrious student. While the others are busy making merry, you understand."

"I see." Sharp's eyebrows rose. "You will tell me all?"

"No. But I will tell you enough to help. Hopefully."

He didn't like it. Old instincts urged Sharp to draw his wand and level it at Fig's throat, demanding information in the name of a civilian's safety. But the sad reality was that he likely would have lost such a threat - yes, even to a professor of theory - and, far more importantly, this was no Dark Wizard playing games with an innocent's life. If Fig thought the information too dangerous to offer up, even to him...

Sharp swallowed the bile that wanted to rise up his throat. Perhaps he'd need a drink for this conversation after all.

"Whatever you can offer," he grunted, knowing it was the best he was going to get. Fig's inclined head spoke of his gratitude.

The final stretch to his classroom - and the quarters beyond - were particularly uncomfortable, despite the warm glow of the torches and the companionable silence beside him. Sharp had been cataloguing his student's... oddities for weeks now, from their tendency to arrive in class sporting a number of worrisome injuries, to their uncommon proficiency in Wiggenweld. The potential combinations of the two - a series of wounds so deep and frequent that the potion couldn't fully heal them, or else a life filled with such danger that they simply forgot to rid themselves of the occasional burn or bruise - was what had kept Sharp up late into the night lately.

He knew both experiences too well. No fifteen-year-old should be grappling with such things, no matter how talented.

He'd just set his mind to pressing Fig after all when they opened the final door and found an unexpected obstacle blocking their way. Sharp's wand jumped into his hand, still eagerly loyal. Fig merely blinked from behind his shoulder.

"Another decoration?" he asked.

Sharp shook his head. There, placed neatly in front of his classroom door, was a box. Wrapped in silver with a green bow, 'present' was likely the more accurate term, though someone leaving him a gift was a laughable theory. Even his colleagues knew better, Fig included, and a dozen possibilities had run through his mind by the time Sharp had finished his first detection spell, from a prank of Peeves' to far darker possibilities. The diagnostic came back clean though. As did the second, and the third. He'd worked his way through a number of lesser known charms taught only to The Unspeakables (he'd had his connections back in his youth, carefully nurtured and then exploited) before he finally noticed Fig leaning against the dungeon wall, looking annoyingly amused.

"I don't know which impresses me more," he said. "Your spell repertoire, or your paranoia."

Sharp shot him a glare. "It's not paranoia if it's warranted."

"And is this? Warranted? A gift at Christmas time - how mysterious!"

"You would be wary too if the last gift you'd received was when top hats were still in style."

Fig's smile fell. "I know I can be a bit scatterbrained at times, but do remind me to fix that. Well, if you're so sure you're not the recipient, why not prove it by looking at the card?"

...fair enough.

With a sigh Sharp levitated the package and brought it into the classroom. It was with a wave of self-recrimination that he realized he should have done that from the start: the wards up around the student's tables, woven to contain all manner of foolhardy mistakes, would have stopped all by the darkest of magics - certainly any schoolyard pranks. With a shake of his head and a promise to train come morning, Sharp cleared a space and separated the card, unfurling a surprising amount of writing.

His eyes narrowed. He knew those quill strokes.

"Ah," Fig murmured, that blasted smile coloring his voice. Sharp ignored him, instead turning his attention to the slightly sloppy handwriting - evidence of a teen still learning their way around a quill.

Dear Professor,

Happy Holidays! I don't know what you celebrate, if anything, so please accept any and all tidings of the season.

By now you've no doubt noticed the gift I left (...Of course you have. Not sure why I wrote that) and I just want to begin by saying that I am offering this with the upmost respect and intended goodwill. I assure you, this is not a prank, or an insult, but if after opening the package you decide to light it up with a particularly vicious 'Confringo,' I'll understand. Just know that I only ever wanted to help. Truly.

See, coming to Hogwarts after growing up in the muggle world has given me the opportunity to compare the two and I've come to the conclusion that wizards tend to over-complicate things. (Please don't ever tell Sebastian I said that. I'll never hear the end of it!) What muggles lack in magic they make up for in innovation and I honestly believe that if we spent a little less time feeling smug about our supposed superiority, we'd notice how much their world has to offer.

For now, I decided to bring a piece of that world here. With some modifications, of course. We can't be too simple.

I hope it helps, Sir.

With love and season's greetings,

Dylan Fairchild

"Would someone please explain to me," Sharp murmured, "why this child seems to be under the impression that I will flay them for their attempts at a gift? Have I truly acquired that heinous a reputation?"

Fig chuckled, though there was little humor in it. "Frankly, my friend, I would pay more attention to the trust they've placed in you. Or do you think them so careless as to mistakenly mention their knowledge of a restricted curse?"

Sharp's gaze honed in on that "Confringo." Yes, he'd noticed that too. "You did not teach it to them?"

"Certainly not. Nor have I encouraged a merging of their muggle and magical lives, though in retrospect perhaps I should have."

At Sharp's nod Fig had taken the top off the box. Inside lay a... contraption of sorts. At first, Sharp didn't know what to make of the thing. It appeared to be a mess of buckles and strips of leather, forming two vertical lines with a connection on each side, bendable through a hinge. Worn and clearly second-hand, it was nevertheless well cared for. On the side of each buckle was a small, metal medallion with WF embossed in the center.

Fairchild. A former possession of a family member, perhaps?

Though interesting in its oddities, what truly drew Sharp's attention were the enchantments. The piece thrummed subtly with magic and at Fig's urging he cast a quick modification of 'Revelio,' similar to what a mediwitch would use to catalogue past diagnoses. Above the box in a golden script of his own handwriting appeared a list of charms, each more impressive than the last: durability, lightness, cushioning, self-cleaning. There was spellwork to gently nudge away a person's notice, another that - oddly - appeared to have traces of 'Levioso' in it. Sharp let out a soft, frustrated breath when he came across the strings of 'Protego.' It wouldn't block a curse as an actual shield would, but this thing would withstand more damage than the average garment. Perfect for an ex-Auror still stumbling into trouble.

"There's no way the child did all this on their own," Sharp muttered, eyes scanning the list. "What is the blasted thing even for? I--"

He stopped, settling on the final enchantment, woven in last for prominence: a modified 'Eliminata.' Unbidden, the definition from old textbooks reasserted itself.

Eliminata. Charm. Colloquially known as The Numbing Spell. Capable of eliminating mild to moderate discomfort for short periods of time. Though it provides momentary relief for the sufferer, it is not a substitute for healing. Seek out a licensed mediwitch after using.

Sharp's leg gave an answering throb.

"They didn't do this on their own," he repeated, knowledge of the gift's purpose settling over him. It was easier, really, to lean into the horror of that. His student discussing his private, degrading affairs with another professor. Or worse, some outsider just as likely to run to the gossip rags. Sharp could feel the angry flush worming its way up his cheeks as he pictured it; the itch of his wand hand, very nearly succumbing to temptation and blasting a cathartic hole in the wall--

A hand on his arm stemmed the tide before it could overflow.

"Think carefully now," Fig said, fast and low. "Remember the worry in their letter? The trust? The intent? I'd wager Hecate had a hand in this - I'd know that spell signature anywhere - and you are aware that she guards others' privacy even more diligently than her own. Besides, does Fairchild strike you as the type to go about this thoughtlessly?"

Sharp swallowed. Shortcuts only ever lead to shortcomings. They were one of the few who had truly taken his advice to heart.

No sooner had he remembered that then the letter burst into flames. He flinched, already on high alert, but all the parchment did was curl in on itself, no doubt timed to self-destruct once it had been read. Sharp watched the fire take with it all evidence of who had left the gift - and what it was for.

A gift. He'd very nearly forgotten that part.

"I'm not fit for mentoring," he sighed, lowering his wand. Sharp rubbed at his eyes a moment, the action more punishing than soothing.

Fig gave his arm a final pat, pulling away. "The only thing you're unfit for is gauging your own flaws. I assure you, a cautious nature and desire for privacy are not it."

"Oh? What then?"

"Trying my patience, for one. Are you trying this thing on or not?"

After some lighthearted teasing about that privacy, Sharp retreated to his quarters to shed jacket and trousers, now faced with the daunting task of getting it on. In the end though, that complex spellwork came to his rescue. It moved like one of Gladrags mannequins, twisting and then gently tightening until one band was secured around his thigh, the other around his calf. The hinge still allowed his knee to bend, but there was a... resistance now.

Sharp tested the new feeling. It was odd, but not unpleasant. In fact - he realized with mild shock - he was able to put more weight on his leg than usual, despite it being the end of a long, tiring day. The combination of support, featherlight charms, and the mild, soothing tingle of Eliminata accomplished what all his rare research had failed at.

He wouldn't be running after Dark Wizards anytime soon, but Sharp was undeniably standing easier than he'd been a moment before. Did it matter then that the picture remained as ugly? The cavern in his leg now dressed in an absurd muggle contraption. Sharp sneered briefly at his reflection, usually something to avoid.

"What am I going to do with you?" He wasn't sure if he was talking to himself, or Fairchild.

When Sharp finally returned - the gift now hidden beneath the pants of his suit, its outline only noticeable if you knew what you were looking for - he found that Fig had entertained himself by adding garlands to the cupboards and berries to the cauldrons. He met Sharp's halfhearted glare with a shrug and didn't even blink as he re-donned his coat, their conversation postponed.

"Where are you off to?" he asked, smile infusing his words. "Climbing more stairs at this time of night?"

Luckily, Sharp was already out the door, his own smile hidden. "I'm off to find our wayward charge. If they have the time and talent for this, clearly I haven't been challenging enough in their assignments."

A laugh followed him down the dungeon corridor. "Be kind now - it's the holidays!"

Kind? Rarely. But Sharp understood pride and he was willing to dole out a hefty portion tonight.

Giving into the smile, Sharp traversed the halls with a limp and a spring in his step, ready to walk the whole castle, if necessary, before the night was through.

Fin.

A/N: The brace is based off of Edward's in Our Flag Means Death. If you haven't watched that gem of a show pleeease go do it. Also, apologies if these two come across as OOC. They've got hard voices to nail, especially when it feels like I haven't spent much time with them yet 😬

#Hogwarts Legacy #Professor Sharp #Aesop Sharp

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