Because you're pretty I'm bored.


He paused for a moment (making sure to hold his quill over the well) to decide if he had worked by candlelight before. It wasn't very likely, being a man of 50 who'd spent the last 30 years in the Muggle world, but then, a large percentage of the events in his Sunnydale tenure could be classified as "unlikely." It almost seemed as if he'd lived so long that he'd circled back around in time, past computers and television to cloaks and parchment and, well, magic. It was a painful irony, and a bit sad, that the most powerful witch he'd ever known would have been as out of place here as an automobile salesman. He wondered what had happened to the world, what force could change something as old as man, as old as demons. As much as he'd loved Willow, he'd never told her how little she really knew of this world. He knew he couldn't show it to her, however much he'd wanted to, and he couldn't help but feel she still wouldn't quite have understood it. Tara (bless her heart) could thrive here, he thought. She deserved to see the institutions of the world she respected so highly, the world that would have respected her. It was a shame, really.

He fumbled around the side of his cloak for an awkwardly placed pocket. Finding the soft, white cloth inside, he cleaned his glasses more for habit than necessity, an establishment of familiarity and self in a new environment. It wasn't that acclimating to Hogwarts was difficult for him; on the contrary, it was a bittersweet mixture of excitement and nostalgia to see Ethan's old stomping grounds. After years at university hearing stories of unforgivable spells and Slytherin victories (both off and on the Quidditch pitch), he hadn't been surprised to find the castle looked every bit like he'd imagined. He wondered how the new generation of Slytherins would measure up. Dipping his quill again, he absent-mindedly scratched his tattoo.

It was hard not to feel like a groupie who'd just been let backstage with his favorite band. However much "Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher" nominally mirrored his post as Watcher, it didn't change the fact that he was, for all practical purposes, a Muggle. He knew it, the other teachers knew it, Headmistress McGonagall knew it, and the students most likely knew it. Given that he'd spent most of his encounters with dark forces beaten unconscious, he nearly believed his nationality was his sole qualification. He had barely been back in Bath a week when the letter appeared on his doorstop. However flattered (and elated) to receive the interview, it never seemed possibe he could actually be appointed. The Headmistress joined him for tea one crisp morning in June to discuss "the situation." She fully informed him of the curse on the position, the impending war, the saga with the Potter boy, and the utter upheaval of the school within the last year. It was quite a lot to sort out. At the mention of Potter, her eyes weakened slightly as if giving in to imminent grief. It was a heartache he recognized, letting go of your prize pupil, your child. Of course he would help.

A ghost casually floated in and out of his office. He'd seen this one earlier, during his 7th year class. Several of the students were kind enough not to laugh as he tripped over his chair, startled. One of them, the Granger girl, reminded him noticeably of Willow. But with Buffy's audacity, he decided. Yes, Buffy would definitely have been a Gryffindor. As would Xander, he wagered. The heart of the school. Willow would find a home in Ravenclaw. Cordelia would be delighted to learn her Slytherin traits could be rewarded in an academic setting. As for Hufflepuff, he posed Riley a certain candidate. He had always wondered where his own true House lied. The Sorting Hat was perched prominently on the Headmistress's cabinet most days of the year; he'd seen it that very morning as she addressed any final concerns before breakfast. Maybe next time he would ask it.

Scrawling his first grade onto the top parchment of his first assignment, he smiled to see it was Miss Granger's. A fit beginning, he thought. And underneath her name, she'd written Welcome to Hogwarts, Professor Giles! He fought the urge to reply, thank you, dear, placed her work at the bottom of the stack, and dipped his quill again.