Disclaimer: I am not J K Rowling. I do not own Harry Potter.

Note: The following takes place in an alternate universe from canon.

August 31st, 1975

Albus Dumbledore returned to his office from a discussion with the house-elves about the menu for the Sorting Feast tomorrow night to find one of the most dreaded smirks in Europe plastered on the face of the man who was sprawled in a chair with his boots up on Albus Dumbledore's desk, and who appeared to be studying with interest a French muggle newspaper. He was a tall, wiry man, of indeterminate age, with tanned skin and iron grey hair, in a white short-sleeved cotton shirt (the collar button of which was undone) and dark grey pinstripe trousers held up by scarlet braces. Albus had not been expecting this visitor, but then again the high and mighty around the world seldom did. He simply showed up and with typical gallic arrogance expected people to take notice – although there was some justification in his expectation.

"Nicolas." he sighed. "What brings you to Hogwarts?"

Albus' visitor folded his newspaper carefully, with the utmost precision, as if he had all the time in the world to do so – which he quite possibly did. It was only once this operation had been concluded to his complete satisfaction, that he put the paper aside, looked up at Albus, and ceased to smirk. The visitor's brown eyes were deadly serious now. The English, although spoken with more than a hint of a French accent, clearly enunciated.

"I heard approximately fourteen minutes ago that you were about to have a staffing problem, Albus. The roof caved in on one of your professors."

"Which one, Nicolas?"

"I'll wait for the person in question to floo-call you. It should be happening any minute now."

"Lemon drop?" Albus half-heartedly offered the bowl.

"Thank-you. I don't mind if I do."

Albus' visitor helped himself and proceeded to suck upon it with every sign of enjoyment.

Several minutes later, Albus received a floo-call.

He erected a privacy ward, at which his visitor snorted, and took a call which left him visibly and increasingly agitated. At length the call ended, Albus dropped the privacy ward, and glared at his former master. His onetime master responded by reaffixing his smirk.

"The roof, as you say, literally caved in on the person whom I had been relying upon to fill the defence position next year." Albus said, in as close to an irate accusatory tone as he dared to get with this particular visitor. "It caved in because it collapsed under the weight as the formerly lead sheets unexpectedly turned to pure gold. My intended defence professor, between concussion and this unexpected windfall, has just quit on me, before the term had even begun. Apparently this must have happened at about the same time as you say you became aware that I was about to 'have a staffing problem'. If I had to compile a list of suspects capable of transmuting a lead roof into pure gold, the name of Nicolas Flamel, Master Alchemist, would be somewhere close to the top." He paused and adopted an aggrieved tone of voice. "Might I enquire as to just why you have chosen to do this to me, Nicolas?"

"First, you interfered recently with a couple of friends of mine in the French Ministry, due to this silly problem you have with your little fake dark lord. You did this without consulting me." Nicolas Flamel began to tick the points off on his fingers. "That was most impolite. Second, you did not apologise for it, and your last Christmas card to me was three months late which was even more impolite, and which again you did not apologise for. Third and finally, I was bored, and Perenelle cautioned me against taking more amusing action which would have wound you up even more. Still, my main point is that you behaved like a boor, and gave yourself liberties to interfere in my business, and so I feel that it is entirely reasonable to meddle right back. Since you are a member of staff down, with less than twenty four hours to fill the vacancy, I am prepared to step in and teach potions at your school this year. That will allow you to reorganise your staff and put someone else into the defence position on a contract up until the exams are over."

"And what if Horace Slughorn doesn't want to be moved out of potions for this year, so you can teach it?"

The Master Alchemist gave a short, barking, laugh.

"Horace Slughorn is a pragmatist. He will recognise just how tremendously damaging it would be to the school's reputation if it became known that you had declined my offer to instruct your pupils in potion-making for a year. I suspect he would even be pleased to step aside, for a year, to teach another subject if he believed it might ingratiate himself with me."

"Might I know as to precisely what end you intend to meddle in my school?" Albus asked.

"You might at some point, but since I have not yet entirely made up my own mind on a specific plan of action, we'll all just have to wait and see. You know me, Albus, mixing things up, just for the hell of it to see what happens…"

Author Notes:

This chapter was originally written as a one-shot, but since there was some interest, additional chapters will follow occasionally. Except for maybe an epilogue it's unlikely to run past the end of school year September '75 to July '76.

Although Nicolas Flamel is apparently English in the Harry Potter canon, the historic figure originates on the continent, so I've taken the liberty of giving this Nicolas Flamel French origins. He's many centuries old, and feels entitled to some sort of respect on account of his age and experience - especially from a former student, which for the purposes of this story I have assumed Albus to be. He really can't be bothered with traditional wizardly forms of dress. They're hardly the most practical of garments for laboratory work, for a start...

Update: Thanks to excessivelyperky for spotting should have been 'boor' not 'boar'. Have corrected that one.