Until Further Notice

Chapter One

The regular sounds of Friday night dinner filled the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The students were just finishing up their puddings, and the atmosphere was pleasant and calm. But, as everyone knows, good moods are not allowed at Hogwarts. There simply must be something upsetting going on at all times--or else the students will be (gasp!) happy, and the readers will be bored. So let us get the horrific news out of the way.

Professor Dumbledore stood up and cleared his throat, causing the entire population of the noble school, including but not exclusive to students, ghosts, teachers, pets, and the occasional falsely-charged-murderer-who's-really-an-Animagus, to fall silent. Pleased with this, the eccentric old Headmaster stared at them gravely for a few minutes, sucking out every last bit of hope that he might have something to say that would not spell disaster.

"I have an announcement," said Dumbledore finally, speaking slowly to let them realize the importance of his words. "As you may have noticed, Professor Sprout has not joined us for dinner tonight. I regret to inform you that she has moved to Spain, and--er--true love with her new husband, Jose."

"Noooooooo!!!!!!" came an anguished cry from the Gryffindor table. Neville Longbottom was standing up, screaming himself blue in the face, the image of pain.

"It can't be true!! Not Professor Sprout!! She--not--no--I--can't--way--aaaaah!" Still screaming, he ran from the hall and out into the corridor.

Dumbledore watched his progress from behind his half-moon spectacles, and then continued on as if nothing had happened.

"Unfortunately, we have not been able to find a replacement Herbology teacher. So, until further notice, you will be taught Poetry in its place by Professor Fawcett."

A short, slight woman sitting to the left of him started and looked up, smiling brightly.

"Hello! I'm sure we're all going to have a wonde--" Her fork slipped from her fingers and dropped to the floor with a clatter.

"I'll just get that," she said, squatting down and banging her head on the table. "Ow!"

Gingerly, she reached up to rub her forehead, poking herself in the eye in the process. "OW!"

Sitting under the Head table, cradling her eye and her head, she spied something silver in the candlelight. "Somebody dropped a fork!" she called out cheerfully.

Dead silence greeted her. For the first time in Hogwarts history, the entire school had nothing to say.

* * *

Considering there wasn't one student in the school who was looking forward to her class, Professor Fawcett looked surprisingly cheerful when her first class wandered in Monday morning.

"Good morning!" she said, smoothing down her skirt. Or rather, skirts. Professor Fawcett wasn't wearing anything really distinguishable; instead, she was clothed in several skirts, scarves, and blouses in varying styles and shades of blue and purple, topped off with staggering stiletto heels and numerous rings, necklaces, bracelets, and earrings.

"First of all, you are to call me Avisa. No 'Professor Fawcett'. Second of all, do any of you have any questions?"

Everybody's hand went up. Avisa chose Neville's.

"Why aren't you teaching Herbology?" In a millisecond, all hands went down.

She seemed to dim slightly. "Well, I, ah, have an order from the Ministry of Magic that, er, says I'm not allowed to teach Herbology. Or, well, even go near a Herbology class. Or even, really, touch any plants at all." She grinned at them in a sheepish way.

"Then why didn't Professor Dumbledore hire somebody who could teach us?" asked Ginny. Murmurs of agreement filled the room.

Avisa shrugged. "I honestly have no idea. Albus and I are old friends, and when Professor Sprout eloped with that cabana boy, he asked me to come and teach Poetry until a permanent replacement could be found. He did say that I would be good for you, though." Completely oblivious to the amazement and disbelief etched on her students' faces, she turned away and stared out the window, winding a strand of fluffy golden hair around her finger.

"Do any of you know what Poetry is?" she asked dreamily, turning to face them. Not surprisingly, Hermione's hand shot into the air.

"Poetry is the art or structure of poems. A poem is the arrangement of words, especially a rhythmical composition, sometimes rhymed, in a style more imaginative that regular speech," she dictated, causing those surrounding her to search for a hidden dictionary.

To the surprise of all that were assembled, Avisa frowned. "Well, yes," she said hesitantly. "But Poetry, and Poems, aren't just definitions. You have to feel them. They are--" Suddenly, she leaped into the air, spinning and twirling, singing and screaming, moving her body in strange ways. Landing on one heel, she spun around twice and stopped--pale face flushed, hair flying, purple eyes shining and sparkling with hidden images. Then, just as quickly as she had changed, she was back--Avisa once more.

"That is Poetry," she said matter-of-factly, and then raised her wand and flicked it. A purple ribbon flew out of the tip, forming a list.

Rules For Classroom

"These rules are all important, but the last one is the most so. If you forget everything else and simply sit here day-by-day, raising your hand and being organized and proper, at least write some real Poetry. That is truthfully all I ask."

All of the students were fairly excited at the prospect of unstableness (Fred and George Weasley had identical evil grins on there faces)--except one.

"But Prof--Avisa, how will you teach us anything if there's no order?" Hermione Granger's voice rang out across the classroom, stiff and piercing.

The teacher smiled. "I won't be teaching you anything."

"But Prof--"

Avisa cut across her. " You will be teaching yourselves. All true knowledge comes from within. Now, let's write some Poetry."