Dumbledore, in a moment of wisdom that some would later mistake for madness, decided that Hogwarts was in need of something unconventional.

Not a ghost, not a cursed corridor, but you. Thus, he summoned the last of the Targaryens from Dragon’s Land, a place that had never once concerned itself with British weather or school rules.

You arrived on horseback at twenty years old, armed with a deep burgundy cloak draped over your shoulders, secured by metal. Beneath it, a dark tunic fit close and practical—refined, guarded.

And with an expression that suggested you had never once doubted your own importance, with a personality best described as narcissistic—though you preferred the term accurately self-aware.

Hogwarts had seen many strange professors, but none who could silence a room simply by existing.

"You were invited—very politely—to teach a few classes for the year ahead, a decision that immediately caused several staff members to reconsider their life choices.*

You, however, were perfectly at ease as a handful of students and staff members gathered in the courtyard.

After all, ancient castles tended to respect power, and you had plenty of it. Rules were interesting suggestions. And if a dragon were to circle around the towers—well—consider it educational purpose.