The Only Choice

Chapter One - Aisa Returns

With a sigh, Aisa rolled over and looked at the time, blinking at her in digital glory from her radio-alarm. Six o'clock. She threw back her quilt, thinking she might as well get up; she was never going to get back to sleep.

She suppressed the yawn that her body brought defiantly forth, swung her legs out of bed and went over to open the curtains. A clear sky greeted her and feeling slightly better she shuffled out of her bedroom, along the windowless hall. Aisa lived in a flat on the ground floor of an old, falling-to-pieces town house in the middle of a terrace. As she opened her door, she heard the 'chink' of glass outside the main front door of the house, which meant the milk was being delivered. Aisa gave a wry smile - the past few weeks of disturbed sleep had its upside - at least being up this early meant she could get to her milk before whatever horrible little child had been stealing it habitually for a couple of months. She opened the front door and a crisp, clean chill on the air that you get on British summer mornings, when the air hasn't quite warmed up yet, swept the sleepiness out of her head. She picked up her pint and turned back into the house, kicked the door closed with her foot and deftly scooped up the post from her pigeonhole with her spare hand.

Back inside her flat, she had just settled into her paper and a cup of tea when there was a tapping noise at the window. Aisa jumped a little, then rolled her eyes at herself.

"I swear, I'll never get used to this again," she muttered as she stood up and went over to the window. On the ledge outside, ruffling its feathers impatiently, was a small owl carrying a rather large newspaper. Aisa reached up and unlocked the window, then with a heave, slid it upwards. The owl hopped inside onto the sill and dropped the paper, then with a gentle hoot, hopped out again and flew off. Aisa closed the window halfway and went back to her kitchen table. She put the Daily Prophet on the table, sat down, and opened it over her Muggle Telegraph.

She hadn't always received a copy of the Prophet - in fact, until a Monday morning three weeks ago, she hadn't even seen a copy of the paper for almost fifteen years. She had been sitting quietly reading her normal paper, when, like today, an owl had tapped on her window. Aisa had almost choked on her coffee.

At first, she had thought there must be some mistake; she certainly hadn't subscribed to the wizarding paper. The owl, however, was adamant that she take it and eventually, possibly tiring of their staring competition, just dropped it on the floor and flew off. Aisa had stayed at the table, almost paralysed with - well, with what? Fear? It was a sort of fear; a horrible, gnawing fear that, if she touched that paper, if she picked it up and read it, there would be no turning back. It would suck her back into the world she had left behind, and with it bring back all the memories she had worked so hard to forget. She had been half-right, of course; it had brought all the memories back, that was why she couldn't sleep properly. That paper was a symbol of an invasion back into her life of something she didn't want. Hadn't wanted. Did she want it now?

It had sat there, on the floor where the owl had dropped it, until late that evening. Aisa had watched the news, and gone into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea to take to bed with her; and there it was. She realised she couldn't leave it there, an ominous object that would cast a shadow over her house. She would pick it up and throw it straight in the bin. She stood there, staring at it for a minute, then quickly grabbed it and opened the lid of the bin. But something stopped her dropping it in and she started reading it, right there and then on the floor of her kitchen. She sat there for several hours, completely absorbed, reading it from cover to cover and then again. As she read, a numb horror spread through her body until her fingertips were tingling and shaking. The paper was full of almost no other news but that of his return. He was back. Voldemort was back. When she had read the whole thing again, just to convince herself that it was real, she dropped it like a brick, and stood up in a daze, dragging herself off to bed.

When she awoke the next morning, the horror had turned into more of a resolution. That paper had been sent to her for a reason, as if to tell her that she couldn't hide anymore. That was her world, not this one, and that world was in danger. To shun it now in its hour of need was to cut it off completely and Aisa became conscious of the fact that, even though this is what she had been trying to do for over a decade, it wasn't what she really wanted. For some (most, she thought) news that the most evil wizard the world had ever seen had returned to the world would be enough to make them pack their bags and run off into the sunset. Not Aisa; she had, she decided, spent enough time running. Now as the time to face up to it and go back. She didn't know how, but she would.

The Daily Prophet had appeared again the next day, and the day after that and then again. Aisa had begun to scour the classifieds, but everything seemed too...real. It was all very well saying she would go back, but to actually do it - find a job and re-join the wizarding community was going to be very, very difficult. Then, just as she was beginning to feel the situation was hopeless, she saw it; on page 34, right at the bottom in the corner:

"New Defence Against the Dark Arts professor required at Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Applicants should address their replies directly to Albus Dumbledore by no later than the end of this Month."

It jumped out hat her as if it had been waiting for her eyes to fall upon it. Aisa's face had lit up - this was perfect! She was a teacher at the moment any way in a Muggle school and Hogwarts was perfect for a sheltered re-introduction into the wizarding community.

She had sent off her application that day - yesterday had been the end of the month, so she thought she'd probably be hearing soon. As if to answer her thoughts, there was a sudden 'buzz' of her doorbell. Aisa went over to the intercom, slightly puzzled as to who would be calling at (she glanced at her watch) seven o'clock in the morning. She pressed the button to unlock the main door and opened the one to her flat. The person she saw walk through the door was possibly the last person in the world she expected.

A tall, thin man with a long white beard and hair to match swept into her tiny flat. Aisa could only stand there in shock. Professor Albus Dumbledore closed the door behind himself, his blue eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles.

"Hello, Aisa." Dumbledore put out his hand. Aisa took it in hers and shook it, dazedly.

"Professor! Hello! What are you doing here?"

"I've come to see you, why else?" Spying her empty mug on the table, he went on, "Shall we have a cup of tea?" Inside, Aisa's brain was buzzing with questions and comments, but it seemed to be unable to connect with her tongue in an intelligent manner.

"What? Tea? Oh, yes! Tea! Of course, no problem, the kettle's just over here, I'll just put it on now." Cursing her ineloquence, Aisa crossed over to the kettle, filled it up with water and flipped it on. She stared at the wall for a bit, hands on the worktop, trying to regain her composure. Dumbledore spoke gently,

"Come and sit down, Aisa. The kettle will boil on it's own." Aisa turned around and pulled out a chair. She hesitated,

"Professor, you must excuse me. This has all come as a bit of a shock; you are the first person from our world that I have spoken to for years." Dumbledore nodded, and motioned for her to take her seat. Aisa did so.

"I realise that, Aisa, and I'm sorry if I gave you a shock. However, I had to come here in person." Dumbledore reached into his cloak and pulled out a piece of paper; it was Aisa's application letter. "I received this from you, three weeks ago, and I thought that, before I offered anyone the job, I should come and see you about your application. I want to know why." Aisa, who had been playing with the tablecloth, looked up,

"Why, Professor? I'm afraid I don't quite understand."

"The question is simple, my dear - although perhaps a little vague. Sometimes simplicity can be a little too simple, can it not?" His eyes twinkled again, and Aisa struggled to produce a small, confused smile. "Anyway, as I was saying, 'why?' Why did you decide to apply? As you said to me just now, you have cut yourself off from the wizarding world for almost fifteen years; why have you decided to return now?" Aisa took a deep breath, then began to explain.

"I got a Daily Prophet delivered to me earlier this month. I put off reading it, all day it sat in that corner," Aisa pointed to the corner by the window, "until I had to do something about it. And I read it; I read the whole thing and found it was full of stories about Voldemort's return. I felt absolutely horrified by what I was reading and I felt...sad, about what was happening. When I woke up the next morning, I realised; I couldn't stay away any more, no matter what I'd been telling myself all these years, I still felt connected to that world, and when I read what was happening to it, I couldn't just sit there and pretend I didn't know. I had to go back, I wanted to help to fix...but I didn't know how. Then I saw it, that advert from Hogwarts. That, it seemed to me, would be a perfect way to redeem myself; teach young wizards and witches what had always failed to help me; true defence against the dark arts." The kettle had been whistling to a climax with Aisa's story, and came off the boil with a 'ping' of the switch as she finished. She stood up rather hastily, and poured out the hot water into the teapot, her hands shaking slightly. Behind her, Dumbledore leant back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap.

"You have changed, you know, Aisa. I remember you at school, a quiet, hard-working, but very troubled young girl. I knew by the choices you made all those years ago that you had changed - even if others did not believe it, but you have grown in confidence and are a strong woman, worthy of the respect that I am told you have in your life here. If you can bear to leave that behind, and will accept it, the job is yours." The light rushed back into Aisa's eyes and she whipped around. Dumbledore held up his hand. "However, there is one small, shall we say, condition?" Aisa felt her heart sink immediately; she dreaded to think what the condition was. Dumbledore smiled slightly, "Don't look so dismayed, my dear. The condition is simple enough. You, of course, know of Harry Potter?" Aisa nodded; she may have been cut off for some time, but even she knew about Harry Potter. "Well, I need you to give him some special tuition - he will need as much help as he can in the fight against Voldemort. As his Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, I would like you to help him in whatever way you see fit." Aisa nodded. "You can meet him, if you like, next week. He is arriving at the Headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix on Wednesday." Aisa looked blankly at Dumbledore.

"Sorry, Sir, Order of the what?" The elderly wizard smiled again, and drew another envelope from within his cloak.

"This," he said, holding it in his hand as he spoke, "is your acceptance letter for the post of Professor for Defence Against the Dark Arts. There is also a letter from myself, explaining everything in a little more detail. Shall we all see you on Wednesday week?" He passed the letter over to Aisa. She took it, and replied uncertainly,

"I suppose so? But I don't know where-" Dumbledore cut her off,

"It's all in the letter. See you soon!" With that, her disappeared with a crack. Aisa jumped; she hadn't quite been expecting him to disapparte. She turned the envelope over in her hands, and broke the wax seal. She smoothed out the parchment and bent over it.

Dear Aisa,

I am very pleased to offer you the position of Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this coming September(see the other letter for official what-not).

I also wish to tender another offer toward you. This offer is of membership to the Order of the Phoenix. We are a group of people who came together to fight against Voldemort last time he rose to power and, now he is rising once again, we have found each other once again.

Your skills as a witch would be greatly appreciated amongst us, and we look forward to your presence.

The headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix can be found at number 12, Grimmauld Place.

See you on Wednesday,

Albus Dumbledore

As she read the directions for the headquarters, Aisa's eyes widened; the words were dissolving before her eyes. She sat back in her chair - the Order of the Phoenix? Realisation as to who they were suddenly hit her. She had known of them during the first war, but just not under the official name. She was startled, and rather proud she had to admit, at being asked to join. The question was, especially with a shrewd idea of who might be in this group of wizards and witches, would they take her? Suddenly everything was beginning to seem very real and rather frightening.

*

Aisa awoke on the following Wednesday, her stomach a mass of nerves. She couldn't recall the last time she had felt so nervous. Well, she could recall one, but that was different, that time she had at least had a certain element of control. This time, she had none.

She put some bread in the toaster and dressed quickly, grabbing the toast on her way out. She slung her coat on, locked the door and double-checked the location of Grimmauld Place in her A-Z. She saw the bus go past as she left the house and dashed down the street after it, jumping on just as the doors were closing.

"Morning!" she gasped and flashed her travelcard at the driver. As she sat down, something poked her in the ribs. She felt inside her coat pocket and realised it was her wand, which she had put there the previous night to make sure she didn't forget it. Her discovery brought back into a rather uncomfortably sharp focus the reason why she was on the bus and her nerves, which she had forgotten in the rush to get ready, flooded back to her, making her fingers tingle and hands shaky. Five minutes later, Aisa hopped off the bus and descended into the bowels of London. The Underground was already stiflingly hot, though the weather outside was not especially nice, and this particular station seemed particularly old, dusty and badly ventilated. It had that lonely, empty feeling that Underground stations have out of the rush hour and apart from a couple of kids attempting to remove a bench and a third molesting the chocolate machine, Aisa was completely alone on the platform. She spent her time waiting for the train resisting the urge to jinx the young delinquents in some way, and suppressing a nervous giggle as she relished in spite of herself the idea of using magic again.

Soon enough, the train trundled out of the tunnel and clattered into the station, almost completely empty. Aisa got on and sat down, glancing quickly up at the map, just to make sure she had the right line. The train seemed to take forever through the tunnels, and with every jerk, jolt and stop, Aisa's nerves screeched up a gear until by the time she got off, she could barely get her ticket through the barrier her hands were shaking so much. She trudged up the hill in a sort of daze, then turned off the main road and made her way to Grimmauld Place.

When she finally found herself standing in the square, she thought she was going to be physically sick. Mentally, she slapped herself, cursing herself quietly. She went into the little garden at the centre of the square and perched on one of the rickety, graffitied, old benches and leant forward with her head in her hands, trying to settle her mind.

"Professor Dumbledore said I might find you here." Aisa looked up and saw a thin, pale boy with dark messy hair and emerald green eyes. He was wearing old, scruffy jeans that had an odd, warped look to them, as though they had belonged to someone much to large for them. The boy walked over to her, and held out his hand. "I'm Harry."