Chapter Text
It was raining when John Constantine arrived at Hogsmeade Station—because of course it bloody was.
He stepped off the train in a cloud of cigarette smoke, trench coat flapping around his legs like a half-hearted cloak, eyes flicking toward the looming castle in the distance with all the fondness of a man staring down a prison sentence. The air smelled like wet grass and nostalgia. He hated it.
He lit another cigarette before the first was finished.
A hunched figure waited for him near the edge of the platform. “Mr. Constantine?”
“Unfortunately.”
The figure straightened, revealing the unmistakable shape of Argus Filch. Still alive. Still hideous. “Headmaster Dumbledore asked me to escort you—”
“Not necessary,” John interrupted. “I remember the way. Still got the emotional scars to prove it.”
Filch scowled but said nothing as John turned and started the slow climb toward the castle, flicking ash onto the slick stone path. He didn’t need to be told why he was here. Dumbledore’s letter had been vague, as always—A matter of urgency, your talents required, blah blah blah—but the bastard wouldn’t have summoned him without a reason.
He could have ignored it. Should have.
But then he saw the second parchment. No signature. Just a word.
Newcastle.
⸻
The gargoyle moved aside before he even reached it. Smug old man probably enchanted it to open at the scent of nicotine and existential dread.
John stepped onto the spiral staircase, ascending into Dumbledore’s office like he was being ferried to the gallows. The door creaked open on its own, and there he was—Albus bloody Dumbledore, in all his eccentric, twinkly-eyed glory, seated behind his enormous desk like a wizarding Santa Claus with a secret hit list.
“John,” he said, voice warm, inviting. “It’s been too long.”
“Not long enough,” John muttered, not sitting. “Let’s skip the pleasantries. What the hell do you want?”
Dumbledore gestured to the chair across from him. “Please. Humor an old man.”
John didn’t move.
Dumbledore sighed, lacing his fingers together. “Very well. I’ll be blunt. I need you to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts this year.”
John laughed—once, sharp and mirthless. “No.”
“You’ll be well compensated. And—”
“Not interested.”
“You haven’t even heard the reason.”
John leaned forward, dropping ash onto the priceless carpet. “Don’t care. I don’t do classrooms. I don’t do children. And I sure as shit don’t work for institutions that hide behind tradition and send kids to die.”
“Ah,” Dumbledore said softly, and there it was—the flicker behind the glasses, the calculation. “But you’ve done that before, haven’t you?”
Silence.
Dumbledore opened a drawer and set a manila envelope on the desk. Muggle, of course. So Constantine would understand the weight of it.
“Newcastle,” Dumbledore said, voice low and gentle, like a knife dipped in honey. “Such a tragedy. A failed exorcism. A young girl lost. A mistake… that could so easily be made public.”
John’s mouth went dry. His fists clenched.
“You wouldn’t,” he said.
“I would prefer not to,” Dumbledore said, with that maddening calm. “But should you refuse this request, I may find myself… unable to suppress the truth any longer. The wizarding world deserves to know who walks among them, don’t you think?”
John stared at him. “You manipulative, sanctimonious bastard.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
John snatched the envelope, not even bothering to look inside. He already knew what was in it—pictures, reports, the screams of a girl burned into paper. He’d lived it. He didn’t need a refresher.
“I’ll teach,” he said, voice raw with fury. “But don’t expect me to play nice with the staff, the students, or your bloody Ministry friends. I’ll do it my way, or not at all.”
Dumbledore smiled, maddeningly serene. “Of course, John. I knew I could count on you.”
John turned, coat whipping behind him as he stalked out of the office.
“Welcome back to Hogwarts,” Dumbledore called after him.
John didn’t answer. He lit another cigarette with shaking fingers and muttered to himself:
“Place still smells like lies.”