The Summer of 1991, Hogwarts Great Hall

Professor McGonagall sat alongside Professors Dumbledore and Snape, forming a panel in the transformed Great Hall. This trio served as interviewers for Hogwarts' annual recruitment drive. Thanks to its attractive benefits, Hogwarts often saw a substantial turnout of wizards eager to apply for teaching positions at this time of year.

Yet, after seeing off another applicant, Professor McGonagall let out a deep sigh.

She turned to Albus Dumbledore, whose flowing white beard lent him an air of wisdom.

"Albus, that was the twentieth applicant, yet not a single one is interested in the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. If this continues, we won't just be short this year's professor; it's likely we won't have one for next year or even the year after!"

"That's precisely why no one applies," Snape remarked coldly. "Everyone knows they'd have to hire someone again next year or the year after."

The truth was undeniable.

The curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's post was well-known across the wizarding world.

No one had ever held the position for more than a year without misfortune befalling them. After several senior wizards either disappeared or suffered grievous injuries while occupying the role, the job had become infamous.

It wasn't just hiring a professor—it was practically offering them up as a sacrificial lamb.

"I'll keep searching," Dumbledore sighed as well.

Among the applications he had received, only the former Muggle Studies professor, Quirrell, had requested a transfer. However, Quirrell had been acting rather peculiar lately.

The weather outside Hogwarts that day was gloomy, with light drizzle blurring the view through tall windows. The air was cold and gray, but the hall's interior remained warm, thanks to rows of ornate silver candlesticks holding ever-burning yellow flames. The cozy atmosphere lifted McGonagall's spirits slightly.

"Next," she called toward the doors.

Soon, the heavy doors of the Great Hall creaked open, and the next applicant entered.

Thud. Thud.

The sound of steady footsteps echoed before the figure became visible—a tall, thin young wizard draped in a fitted black cloak. He bore a striking resemblance to a younger Severus Snape but carried an even darker aura.

The first thing McGonagall noticed was his black pointed hat, which obscured most of his pale face. Beneath the hat, his stark white skin contrasted sharply with his dark hair, giving him a ghostly appearance.

When he raised his head, his black eyes—so deeply set they resembled voids—met hers. It felt like being stared at by a pair of black holes.

If ghost stories had a visual archetype, it would surely resemble this man.

Yet, as McGonagall observed him, a thought struck her—perhaps they had found their new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor after all.

Even Dumbledore paused in his habitual beard-stroking, his expression brightening. He picked up one of the resumes from the table.

"Mr. Victor Vanderboom, is it?"

"Yes," the young man answered, his black eyes briefly scrutinizing Dumbledore before moving to the chair set at the hall's center for interviewees.

McGonagall glanced over his resume.

"I see from your records that you were apprenticed in the Far East, but never attended a formal magical academy?"

"Yes. The town I was born in was too remote, far outside the reach of any academy's recruitment. Its residents feared anything outside their perception of 'normal,' so I had to leave."

"But during my departure, I encountered Baba Yaga. She kindly took me as her apprentice, and I studied magic under her tutelage for seven years."

"Baba Yaga… that sounds like a Slavic name," McGonagall murmured. She scanned the resume's "Magical Skills" section and frowned.

"So you learned divination and necromancy from her? Defense Against the Dark Arts isn't your specialty?"

"I have dabbled in all forms of magic," Victor replied softly.

Throughout the conversation, his expression remained unnervingly still. He spoke without any change in tone or movement in his facial muscles, which unsettled the professors.

His demeanor reminded them of an Inferius—a dark, lifeless magical creature.

But with the Defense Against the Dark Arts position hanging unfilled, they had little choice.

Besides, even if he turned out to be another Quirrell, Dumbledore believed no significant harm would come from it.

Dumbledore stood up with a kind smile and handed Victor a form titled "Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor Onboarding Form."

"Excellent, Mr. Vanderboom. We have reviewed your credentials. All we need is some proof of your proficiency in defensive magic—either documents or a live demonstration—and you can report to Hogwarts in two weeks."

Victor did not take the form. Instead, he narrowed his dark eyes at Dumbledore, suspicion flickering in his gaze.

"…Actually, I'm not here to apply for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position."

"What?" McGonagall exclaimed.

"I wish to apply for the Divination post."

McGonagall stared at him in shock. "Mr. Vanderboom, the Divination position is not vacant. Professor Trelawney has held it for over a decade, and we have no plans to replace her."

"It will be vacant soon," Victor said with eerie certainty.

"When the seventh chime strikes at midnight, Sybill Trelawney's fingers will accidentally brush against a thorn of poison ivy, casting her into a deep slumber."

The three professors froze. McGonagall frowned deeply, and Dumbledore's expression grew serious, his sharp blue eyes fixed on Victor.

Snape was the first to break the silence.

"Is this a curse?" he asked icily.

"Quite the opposite." Victor's tone remained calm.

"Two years later, when a comet streaks across the sky, she will awaken. From that day forth, during every solar eclipse, she will make a prophecy. Each prophecy will always be half-true and half-false."

"Preposterous!" Snape snapped, glaring at Victor as if he were mad. In all his years, he had never heard of such nonsense. What kind of curse or poison ivy could grant prophetic abilities?

Victor simply shook his head. Rising to his feet, he said, "You may reconsider. I will be waiting in three days at the thirteenth shop on Charing Cross Road."