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The first few murmurs of confusion happen when the Hogwarts letters start rolling in—though Harry, of course, knows nothing of it because his ability to contact the wizarding world is severely diminished over the summer. His letter arrives halfway through the week and he pays much more attention to the contents and supply list than anything else.
He probably should have, though, because if he had…well, he’d find that it was not signed by Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, but rather a Deputy Headmaster Severus Snape.
How odd.
His first real clue is when Dumbledore shows up. There’s something dark and vicious eating away at his arm but he waves off all of Harry’s concerns. “Just a tad bit under the weather!” he says cheerfully, despite the fact that his flesh is actively rotting. Harry lets it be because, well, for a man as impressive as Albus Dumbledore, maybe rotting flesh really is a mild inconvenience rather than a serious medical issue.
His second clue is when he refers to him as “Headmaster,” only for the to chuckle and say, “Just ‘Professor’ will suffice, my boy.” Harry, who has been calling him “Professor” for a good while now, acquiesces but doesn’t pay it much attention.
His third clue is when no one seems to have any idea as to who the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor will be, not even Mr Weasley, who generally just seems to know these kinds of things.
“Merlin, what if it’s Snape, after all?” Ron demands. “You said that the old man you and Dumbledore met—what’s his name, Slugporn? no, that’s not right—was returning as a Potions professor and Snape is suddenly Deputy Headmaster! Maybe he cursed Dumbledore! And now he’s threatening Dumbledore—”
“To what?” Harry asks sourly. “Get a higher-ranking title and teach the class he’s always wanted to? If he really did poison Dumbledore, I’d think it would be for some more important reasons. And besides, he’s Dumbledore. As if Snape could pull one over him. He already told me he was perfectly fine…”
Ron sighs. “I hope so,” says Ron. “God forbid he go to the hospital, with everything going on…”
Everything Going On is a very loaded phrase and Harry intentionally lets go. It’s a thought more suited for mornings, anyway. Trying desperately to place it out of his mind, Harry sinks back to sleep.
The final clue—though, at that point, it’s less a clue and more a realization—is that Dumbledore is not sitting in his usual place in the center of the High Table. No, that place is instead occupied by McGonagall, and the place usually reserved for McGonagall is pointedly empty. Hermione says, “That’s not right…”
Harry, however, is too busy staring at the most bizarre spectacle of all: Dumbledore sitting merrily at the place usually reserved for the Defense Against the Dark Arts professors, chatting with an increasingly pale Slughorn. The entire Great Hall is silent as they observe the situation and, for once, all the students of Hogwarts are united, sharing a single thought: What the actual fuck?
When the doors to the Great Hall burst open, it is Snape who leads the First Years into the room. It’s Snape who stands and—monotonously, almost threateningly—gives a welcoming speech. He introduces himself as “Deputy Headmaster Severus Snape, your Transfiguration professor” and the Great Hall bursts into whispers. A single glare from the sullen git is enough to set them to silence, though.
When all the First Years are sorted and Snape returns to his seat—the one usually reserved for McGonagall—the room suddenly dwindles to silence. McGonagall rises.
“Welcome, students of Hogwarts,” she begins, and then she keeps going, and Harry doesn’t really catch most of the speech, just the bits where the woman admits that she’s the new Headmistress—since when?—and Slughorn (“Oh,” Ron mutters) is the new Potions professor and then—
“And may I introduce—or reintroduce—Albus Dumbledore, your new Defense professor.”
And that is when shit properly hits the fan.
“Just so you know,” Snape says the moment Harry’s class walks into the classroom, “I don’t like this. I didn’t ask for this. In fact, I begged that damn bastard—he’s not my boss anymore, I can call him whatever I want—to not do this to me. I was suitably above average at Transfiguration during school but I did not pursue it any further following getting my NEWT. I haven’t touched Transfiguration theory in a year. I probably know less about it than you!”
Harry looks at Ron and Hermione with wide eyes and they seem just as confused as Harry is, as do the rest of the Gryffindors. Even the Ravenclaws shift uncomfortably.
It might have something to do with the fact that Snape smells, rather overwhelmingly, of alcohol.
Snape continues, “And it’s not like this couldn’t have been avoided. Did you know That Damn Bastard”—Harry can hear the emphasis—“once taught Transfiguration, too? He could have taken this job if he was so tempted to relive his youth. But no, not only did he once again reject my application to become the Defense professor, he decided to take the job for himself. And what about me? Once again, Severus Snape draws the short straw!”
“Um,” says one particularly brave Ravenclaw, “Professor Snape…do you happen to have a syllabus for us?”
Snape looks at her blankly for a moment before wildly muttering to himself. He reaches over to the other side of his desk, rummaging through what must be an open cupboard before extracting a stack of papers. Instead of spelling them onto everyone’s desks, he shoves some into the hands of Seamus, who’s sitting in the front row, and says, “Pass them out.”
Seamus stares down at the papers. “They’re crinkled and stained,” he says. He looks up. “Are these tears? Did you cry on these?” He shuffles through them. “You cried on every single sheet!”
“Did not,” says Snape, offended. “Minerva cried on at least half of them…”
“I’m going to fail my NEWT,” Hermione says blankly. “Professor Snape is so depressed that we’re all going to fail our NEWTs.”
Snape, hearing her, puts his head in his hands. “Just a year,” he says, “and then everything will be over…no one survives the year…” He begins weeping openly. Seamus winces, moving away from him and beginning to distribute out the syllabi. Once he’s done, Snape pauses and says, “Well done, Mr Finnegan. Ten points from Gryffindor.”
“Er, I think you’re supposed to give points to Gryffindor,” says Terry Boot.
Snape frowns. “That doesn’t sound right.”
They give up after that and let Snape go back to his weeping.
Potions isn’t much better. Not only is Harry suddenly enrolled in his least favorite class—apparently Slughorn has lower standards than Snape—but he’s also forced to use a raggedy old textbook with faded text and dense annotations.
At least the annotations are useful.
“Mate,” says Ron, staring at the other side of the room speculatively, “is it just me or is Malfoy—”
“Up to something?” asks Harry. He’s already digging through his bag to grasp the Marauder’s Map. “I’m so glad you asked.”
“No, I’m just saying he looks very pale. And kind of constipated.”
“Maybe he’s finally taking a bit after his mother,” reasons Harry, who remembers rather vividly the thoroughly unpleasant look that always seemed to be on Narcissa Malfoy’s face. Then, “But he’s definitely up to something. Yeah? Yeah.”
“I mean, yes,” says Hermione, who is also squinting at Malfoy, “he’s always up to something. But he also looks moments away from a panic attack, you know?”
“What’s a panic attack?” asks Harry.
Neville, who’d been listening silently, reposponds, “Whatever is going on with Professor Slughorn, probably.”
They all turn to Slughorn, whose hands are shaking so badly he drops a vial and it shatters on the floor. “Oh god,” says Slughorn. “Dear me, I apologize. Just got some nerves…no, no, don’t touch that, it’s incredibly corrosive and also smells strongly of skunk…yes, I’m sure we can all smell it now. Why don’t I just try to…” He pulls out his wand in an effort to mitigate the damage but his hands shake again and suddenly every bag in the entire room grows legs and begins tap dancing. “Jesus fucking Christ!”
“Slugporn’s really got a mouth on him,” says Ron.
“It’s Slughorn, Ron!” says Hermione.
“Right,” says Ron, “Slugtorn.”
“Slug.”
“Slug.”
“Horn.”
“Horn.”
“Slug. Horn.”
“Slug. Horn.”
“Slughorn.”
“Slugwhore.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” mutters Hermione.
They eventually have to evacuate the room after the noxious fumes are so intense that Malfoy literally passes out. It’s Dumbledore who comes to take care of things, striking everyone in the general vicinity silent.
“Horace!” Dumbledore says brightly.
Slughorn goes still and pale. “A-Albus,” he stutters.
“Quite the situation you’ve got on your hands here.”
“Yes…”
“I’m sure you could use an extra wand?”
“I mean, you really musn’t trouble yourself—”
“Consider myself troubled! I’m quite fine with it, though, truly. I was just having a free period and I was dreadfully bored.” With a swish of Dumbledore’s wand, everything returns to its usual condition. “Oh, what a rush!”
“What a rush,” Slughorn repeats monotonously.
“Anyway,” continues Dumbledore, “seeing as your students probably deserve the period off, I was wondering if I could perhaps have a private word with you—”
And Slughorn probably faints, as well.
“Hm,” says Dumbledore, “how unfortunate. That’s the third time this week.”
“He should probably get that checked out,” Harry offers, and Dumbledore replies, “Indeed…”
But, hey: class is canceled. Score.
Defense Against the Dark Arts is probably the most anticipated class of Harry’s entire social circle. The few students who’ve already experienced it seem struck suspiciously silent on the matter so anxiety runs sharply through all the students as they file into the room.
The first thing Harry notices is pink. The entire room is violently, eye-wateringly pink. Hermione says Oh no and Ron says Hm and Pansy Parkinson says You know, this is almost adjacent to stylish which earns her a quick Shut it from Theo Nott.
Dumbledore promptly glides into view…on rollerskates.
“Hello, my dear students,” he says brightly.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Malfoy immediately demands.
“Well, what’s the meaning of anything, really?” Dumbledore responds. “Scholars have long since argued over the true meaning of life but no consensus has ever been reached. None of them were as old as I was, though, and with age comes experience. Let me let you in on a little secret: life has no meaning. There is no true purpose for humanity. We live, we procreate—those of you that are so inclined to, that is—and then we die. And we all do die, in the end, don’t we, Tom?” And, rather bizarrely, Dumbledore is looking right into Harry’s eyes.
However, the only person in the room with a name even vaguely resembling “Tom” is Dean Thomas, who simply asks, “I’m sorry?”
“Nothing to be sorry about, Mr Thomas,” says Dumbledore. “And, anyway, all that’s to say—I would rather not die just yet, so if anyone in this room has any plans to murder me, I’d really appreciate it if all plans were delayed until, say, June?”
Malfoy falls out of his chair.
“I’ll take that as agreement, then,” says Dumbledore. “Now, open up your books!”
“We weren’t assigned any books, Professor,” Hermione points out. “You just sent us all sheets of loose-leaf paper with badly drawn doodles. I don’t know what you wrote because it was all in pencil and the words were too smudged…”
“Oh. Right. Well, take out some lines paper—”
“You mean parchment?”
“Yes, that. Take out some parchment and a pen—”
“Quill.”
“—and a quill and be ready to take notes.”
Blaise Zabini, with all the resignation of a dead man, asks, “On what, professor?”
Dumbledore pulls out his wand and writes in the air next to the blackboard, in sparkly pink streaks of light, Inferi.
He even dots the i with a heart.
“I should have gone to Durmstrang,” Malfoy moans.
Hermione drags Harry and Ron to the Headmistress’s office. “It’s not like he’s a bad teacher,” she says, defending herself against absolutely no one, “but his methods leave a lot to be desired. I’m quite sure summoning an actual Inferius into the classroom is illegal, right? It must go against some child endangerment laws?”
“Um, you do realize you’re talking about Hogwarts, right?” Ron asks.
Hermione purses her lips.
Harry, meanwhile, is still dazed from that entire episode. “I’m telling you!” he says. “That thing looked so familiar! Was it the hair? Maybe its face shape. No, no, the eyes…”
“Really, Harry, why would you recognize an Inferius?” Hermione demands. “It’s not like you know anyone who has become one! And sure, Professor Dumbledore asked Dean if he recognizes it but—”
“No,” says Harry, “he asked someone named ‘Tom’ if they recognized it, but he was looking at me. I’m telling you, that thing was eerily familiar—”
“Bellatrix!” Ron bursts out. “That’s what I was thinking! Bellatrix Lestrange! It’s in the hair…”
“Please,” says Hermione. “Next you’ll say that it resembles Sirius.”
“Well—”
“Why would Sirius have anything to do with an Inferius?”
Before Harry can think up an answer to that, the three of them arrive at the Headmistress’s office and they’re let in without having to knock. McGonagall is inside, clutching a bowl to herself.
“Headmistress,” Hermione says. “I’m here to file a complaint about—”
“That Damn Bastard?” McGonagall asks sourly. “Get in line.”
“But—”
“No need to be so rude, Minerva,” a terrifyingly familiar voice sniffs. Harry, Hermione, and Ron all freeze before slowly looking upward. There, staring down at them all, is a portrait of Albus Dumbledore. He catches their gazes and winks.
“I thought portraits are only animated once their subject dies,” Hermione stutters.
“Hogwarts Headmasters get special exceptions,” Portrait Dumbledore says cheerfully.
“He’s always here,” McGonagall says, beginning to slowly rock back and forth in her seat. “Always watching…always listening…always whispering in my ear…”
“Beg your pardon,” says the portrait, “but I do not whisper.”
“We can tell,” Ron mutters.
McGonagall keeps rocking. “I’ve not got a single moment of peace in two months…”
“Peace? Who needs peace? You’re the Headmistress of Hogwarts!”
“Agony, I’m in agony…”
“Minerva,” Dumbledore says dangerously, staring down at her with a wicked glint in his eye. “Do calm down. Look, you’ve got guests in your office and you’ve done nothing but complain. You must do what needs to be done.”
McGonagall freezes. “No, Albus, I mustn't—”
“Minerva.”
McGonagall slumps. Stiff fingers extend the bowl that she’d been clutching to her chest in Harry and his friends’ direction. When she looks at them, it's with dead eyes from the other side of half-moon spectacles. Harry backs away in terror.
She rasps, “Have a sherbet lemon.”
And Harry screams.
~ the end ~