Hellblazer: Hogwarts

Hellblazer: Hogwarts

Chapter 9: Lay My Head On The Surgeon's Table

Notes From The Field

Conjured alcohol is a fucking CRIME AGAINST HUMANITY. Stuff's pretty bad going down- whisky's a bit off, beer tastes outright American- but I've had worse. It's AFTER that's the problem. 2-3 hours in, BANG- anything left in the system vanishes, just like that. Problem is, the brain's still running on drunk. All that's left when it goes is the sodding hangover.

Wouldn't bother even trying, only Madam Rosmerta's locked me out of the Three Broomsticks, on account of people getting up and leaving when they see me coming. I ever find out who blew up my goddamn pub, he'd fucking well better hope the Aurors get to him first.

Yes, this is bloody relevant. There's been another bomb sent. Turned up at Ginger's house while he was still in hospital. Goddamn thing was addressed to his wife. Thought it was a prank packet, so she zapped it away before it could do any harm. Knocked the delivery owl out of the air in the process, too, they're trying to trace the thing now...

And how do I know this, you might ask? That git Moody came 'round to tell me I'm still Number One Suspect, that's how. After counting over birds in the Owlery and interrogating half the staff, most of the portraits, and two or three dozen house-elves. He can't find anyone to say I've been out of the school to send that owl, because I haven't bloody BEEN out of the school. Fuck, I've hardly been out of my rooms! I'd say 'sod this' and throw the contract back in Dumbledore's face, only I haven't anywhere else to go. Don't much fancy my chances of finding my way home on my own, either. That, and the kids arrive tomorrow. If I've got to put up with this kind of shit I might as well give 'em their money's worth, eh?

***

Sophronia Toops smoothed down the front of her robes with both hands, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. Oh, sure, she would be spending most of the Feast at the head table, where no one could see but the two teachers on either side of her, but- well, these new robes wrinkled so, and she couldn't be stopping for a Pressing Charm every few minutes. Why had she ever let Madame Malkin talk her into linen?

"Oh, Sophie, do stop fretting," said the amused, grey-haired witch beside her. "You do this every year, and it never helps."

"Well, I'm sorry, Rolanda, but I've got an image to maintain," Sophronia snapped back. It came out a little harsher than she intended; she bit her lip. "Er. I didn't mean it that way."

"It's all right." Hooch laughed, clapping her on the shoulder. "Honestly, though, it's just the start-of-term feast. The way you carry on, you'd think it was an inspection from the Ministry. I doubt if anyone's even looking at you, other than the first years."

"Yes- well-" A familiar odour of smoke stung at her nostrils, distracting her from what she was about to say. Hooch, noticing the silence, turned to see what was so interesting.

"Oh," she said. "Well, that explains a few things. Can't say I blame you."

Sophronia's cheeks went red. "It's not-"

Hooch grinned. "Of course it's not," she said soothingly. "I understand. Don't worry, I shan't say a word."

"I'm serious, Rolanda! This has nothing to do with the new fellow!"

"Really? May I have him, then?"

"Rolanda!"

"I mean, look at that arse of his-"

Sophronia would've liked to sink through the floor. All she could manage was an indignant squeaking noise. "It isn't anything like that!" she finally protested, weakly.

The speculative look on Hooch's face as she considered the new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor would've done a horse trader proud. Mercifully, he wasn't looking their way, but appeared to be caught up in a conversation with Professor Flitwick. "Ah? Pity."

Struggling for a moment of control, Sophronia took a deep breath. "Rolanda? Can we talk about something else, please? I've got to sit next to the man." And if I have to keep looking at him now I'm not going to be able to concentrate during the Feast, she mentally added.

Hooch shrugged, turning away. "As you like," she said indifferently. "I can talk to him later, I suppose. Know him, do you, or have you been worshipping from afar?"

"His name's John Constantine," she said, refusing to rise to the bait. "Lives here at the castle."

"Hm. Bit of luck for you, that."

"Shut up, Rolanda... actually, no, it is luck. But not like that!" she protested hastily at the sight of the other witch's grin. "The man's lived his entire life among Muggles. He could have my job three times over if he wanted to. I don't think there's anything about them he doesn't know."

"Ah, so that's a purely academic blush on your part, then?"

"Rolanda, if you don't-"

"Something wrong, ladies?"

Sophronia wanted to die.

He was grinning at them, that big, awful knowing grin of his implying that he'd heard every word. There could be no protestations of innocence in the face of Constantine's grin. All she could do was duck her head, cheeks flaming, and mumble.

"Sorry," he said (that man's a Scouser if ever I've heard one, the last functioning bit of her brain noted). "Didn't quite catch that?"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," snapped Hooch. "Do stop being such a silly goose and introduce us, won't you, Sophronia?"

There was no hope for it; she had to look up at the man. Striving desperately to avoid eye contact, she locked her gaze onto the slightly-askew line of his robe's collar. "All- all right," she said resolutely. "Rolanda, this is John Constantine, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor; Professor Constantine, this is Rolanda Xiomara Hooch-"

"Flying teacher," Hooch said briskly, leaning past her reluctant companion to shake Constantine's hand. "And may I say, Professor-"

"John, if y'don't mind-"

"Right, then. John, you look like a man who really knows his way around a broomstick."

He laughed, a low rolling chuckle with even more implication to it than his smile. Sophronia was too relieved that the conversation was turning away from her to notice what happened after that. She fidgeted for a moment with her robes, trying unsuccessfully- again- to persuade her robes to lie smooth. The Hall would be ready soon, and she had to look properly presentable.

Without meaning to, she caught herself glancing up at Constantine. His robes were behaving themselves, a thing she felt grossly unfair. Yes, they hung in a way that suggested he'd thrown them on at the end of the corridor, but on him it looked good. Carelessly arranged, yes, but not outright wrinkled. She suspected the air of rumpledness about him would have been there no matter what he wore; it was as much a part of him as the odour of smoke that clung to him despite the total absence of a pipe. Even the fact that he hadn't bothered to shave... He should have given a stronger impression of slovenliness, but somehow it all seemed to work. Even Sophronia's precise, neat sense of aesthetics couldn't find real fault with the man's appearance.

Except for one thing: his hair.

It was... rumpled. It was tousled. It stood away from his head at all the wrong angles. It wasn't the tamped-down hair of someone who'd worn his hat too close, nor even the carelessly askew hair of someone only just recently woken. This was willfully rebellious, outright poky hair. Very, very much so. He didn't seem to care about it- or perhaps he simply didn't realise...

Casually, carefully, Sophronia shifted a little to one side. He seemed captivated by Hooch's end of the conversation, which involved an awful lot of elbow gestures. Well- maybe the other witch was just describing the last Quidditch match she'd seen? Not that it mattered. It was distracting, which was what mattered. Quietly, she reached up to flatten a particularly aggravating bit of Constantine's hair.

She never saw it coming. She would have sworn there was no warning at all. All she knew for certain was that one instant, he was thoroughly engrossed in his conversation- and the next, his hand was clamped around Sophronia's wrist.

"Don't," said Constantine, turning to face her.

Sophronia felt the blood fleeing her cheeks at the sight of the look on his face. She swallowed. "I only-"

"Don't," he repeated, blue eyes narrowing. "Keep your hands to yourself and I'll return the favour, all right?"

But you're such a mess! I was only trying to help... The words died in her throat. A chill crawled over her as she remembered- he was an Occlumens, wasn't he? A powerful one? He'd held off Dumbledore, anyway, and that took some doing. Every Occlumens she'd ever heard of had been an even more skilled Legilimens. Which meant-

She dropped her hand, or at least tried to. He still had hold of her wrist. One blond eyebrow went up; he was still looking at her.

"I- I'm sorry," Sophronia stammered. He nodded, releasing his grip.

"Good," he said. Nodding once to Hooch, he turned in a swirl of tan robes and stalked into the Great Hall.

Sophronia's wrist was fairly throbbing where he'd grabbed it. Shivering a little, she rubbed at the spot.

"Oo," said Hooch. Her tone was sympathetic, but her eyes were on the entrance to the Hall. The doors hadn't closed properly. "That could've gone better."

"Do shut up, Rolanda," said Sophronia absently. Merlin! That'd be bruising soon, she was sure.

"No, really, it could've," said Hooch. "Don't you usually sit three places to Dumbledore's right?"

Sophronia froze. "Oh, no," she breathed.

"Oh, yes," said Hooch. She clapped the stunned witch on the shoulder. "This is going to be an interesting Feast. Come on, it's only a few hours next to the man."

Inwardly she moaned, but she knew there was no help for it. She'd just have to put on her best face, march in there, and sit down next to Constantine quite as though nothing had happened. Just her luck. "Well, now!" she said brightly, smiling at John as she took her seat. "This is a surprise, isn't it?"

He looked at her suspiciously, brow wrinkling. Then he laughed. "Suppose it is, at that. I takin' up someone else's place?"

"No, no," Sophronia reassured him. "We don't assign seating here. Not even to the students, really. Beyond the House tables, I mean."

Constantine nodded. "Good, 'cos I wasn't planning on getting up."

Blast, thought Sophronia. She fidgeted in her seat. "I'm... sorry about that bit in the- ow!" She glared at Hooch, whose innocent look was singularly unconvincing given the twingeing in Sophronia's right foot. "Excuse me, Professor, did you just say something?"

"Yeah, but I don't suppose it much matters. Hallo, Dumbledore."

"Hello yourself," said the Headmaster pleasantly. Sophronia twisted in her seat to greet him. "I see you've met the remainder of our staff, eh, John?"

"Looks like," Constantine agreed. Mercifully, he didn't look Sophronia's way.

"Ah, good." Dumbledore smiled. "Don't hesitate to ask either of your neighbours if there's any difficulty tonight, hmm?" He patted the blond man's shoulder and made for his seat before Constantine could respond.

Which, quite naturally, meant that the man turned to Sophronia instead. "Questions? What's he mean, questions? It's a dinner, innit?"

"Er-" She fumbled. "Well- yes, but- oh, look, you have been to school, haven't you? Only Filius said you were self-taught-"

"Taught myself magic, yeah. I've been to school, though."

"Right. Well, didn't your school have any... you know... ceremonies? Traditions, let's say?"

He frowned. It seemed a natural expression for him. "Not the sort you'd recognise, I don't think," he said. "More on the order of 'corner the new kid in the loo and grab him by the-'"

"Students," said Hooch sharply, from Sophronia's right.

Merlin be praised, thought Sophronia as the crowd of students started to trickle in. A distraction.

And a fine, lovely one it was, too. The children were arriving in droves, all decked out in their back-to-school finest. Herbology would be leaving those robes spotted and dirty soon enough, and there'd likely be enough mishaps in Magical Creatures to leave burns, rips, and marks galore, but there was always something special about the first sight of the students at the Welcoming Feast. Sophronia couldn't help but smile, watching them. As they began seating themselves in clumps of two and three, a nearer motion caught her eye- Constantine, leaning forward.

She turned a little. His eyes were narrowed; his expression, speculative. It reminded her of an expression of her father's. He looked just like that when he was sizing up a prospective purchase at the annual Aethonan horse sale in Exmoor Forest. "Small classes lately," he said, not taking his eyes from the rapidly-filling Slytherin table.

"What?"

Constantine nodded out at the rest of the Great Hall. "You've been having smaller classes than usual lately, haven't you? For about the past three, maybe four, years?"

A horse-trader's look to be sure, Sophronia decided. "Well, yes. Unfortunately."

"Ah. The war?"

"Yes and no. There's been trouble with people not wanting to believe the Headmaster about-" She stopped. "Wait. How did you figure it?"

For answer, he pointed towards the nearest table, which was about two-thirds surrounded by Gryffindors. "Look at 'em. They're all like that. You've got enough room here for a good thousand kids, but I reckon you're lucky if there's even close to half that here now. Likely less, under the circumstances. Unless you've got an entire trainload of brats waiting on the other side of those doors, then you're short by a good deal."

"Ah," said Sophronia delicately, choosing to ignore the 'brats' part. "Well, we do still have the first years yet to come in." As she looked over the tables of Hufflepuff and her own dear Ravenclaw, she was forced to add, "Not... not that many, though."

He made a noncommittal noise and leaned back in his seat.

Feeling an ill-defined need to defend the school's honour, Sophronia noted, "It really does fluctuate, you know. Even in good... times..."

She trailed off; the look he was giving her was one of skepticism mingled with something that might've been either pity or contempt. If only Hooch would interrupt- but no, she didn't, so Sophronia was left to face that gaze with the closest she could manage to a steady look of her own.

She was just beginning to feel the sweat against the back of her robes when he shook his head. "Fine," he said. "Not like it's my lookout anyway."

"Why on earth not?"

He started to dig into his rumpled robes as if searching the pockets, but stopped. With a look of something unpleasant Sophronia couldn't identify, he muttered, "Only goin' to be here a year."

Another question was in order, she felt quite sure of that, but before she could say anything she caught sight of Hagrid's massive form. "Never mind," she told Constantine instead. "They're here."

"Huh?"

The doors to the Hall parted. Sophronia relaxed, feeling a measure of satisfaction as the sight of Minerva McGonagall leading the new group of students (which was, she had to admit, woefully small) left Constantine silent. As the children lined up in front of the staff table, she crossed her fingers; she had a few Galleons wagered with Hooch as to whether this year would yield more Ravenclaws or Gryffindors. Only a handful of the students flinched as the familiar wide rip near the Hat's brim opened and the year's song began.

"A thousand years ago or more-"

Beside her, Constantine made an explosive, disbelieving sound. She tried to shut him out as the Hat continued to sing.

It didn't work.

"Does that thing always do that?"

"Yes, it-"

"Quiet," snapped Hooch, whom Sophronia had all but forgotten. She blushed, looking down hastily. The Hat sang on:

"And so it came to pass that they

Each chose their different ways.

In Ravenclaw, the sharpest minds

Would always find a home,

Whilst Gryffindor-"

"How long's it going to go on like this?" interrupted Constantine. At least he had the courtesy to whisper a little more quietly this time.

"Until it finishes," she heard Flitwick answer, from the man's other side. "Could be a while. Now, please, stay quiet."

"Fine, fine," Constantine grumbled. "Ask a simple question-"

"Quiet!"

It was all Sophronia could do not to laugh. Constantine scowled, slumping low in his seat like a child robbed of its favourite toy. She turned her attention back to the Hat- well, mostly. A number of the students were whispering amongst themselves and pointing.

Somehow, she didn't think they were commenting on the song.

"-those days now quite forgotten.

It's up to us at Hogwarts School

To carry out their plan,

But in these sad, divided days

I wonder if we can-"

Another warning Song. Sophronia's stomach knotted. Hadn't last year's been enough? At least it didn't seem to provoke another question.

"It falls to you to overcome-"

Constantine coughed.

Please, she thought, don't let him-

"Does it usually take this long?"

At least he had muttered it quietly, and out the side of his mouth... "It's nearly done, I think."

"Sssh!" That was Flitwick.

"And turn from your dissension.

But I can only do my part,

So you must now do yours-"

His breath shifted. He was going to ask something else. She knew it.

She readied a foot to mash down on his.

The words never came; Constantine's expression changed to one of surprise, and he looked down. The cause, so far as Sophronia could see, was a scrap of... yes, that was parchment! Flitwick had passed the man a note. As she watched, simultaneously horrified and fascinated, he unfolded it. She'd just caught sight of Dumbledore's spidery handwriting when a burst of applause alerted her to the end of the Hat's song.

"Here," Constantine muttered into her ear as she began to clap, "explain this to me, would you?"

She looked down; he was passing her the note. On one side it read:

I shall expect you in my office when the meal has ended. Do pay attention to this bit:

Obediently following the colon, she turned it over. On the other side it read only:

You're Next.

-D.

"What's he mean by that?"

"Brooke, Anselm!" McGonagall announced.

Sophronia stared at him.

***

"This is bollocks, Dumbledore!" Constantine slammed his hands down on the edge of the Headmaster's desk. Right now, he didn't care about the ethics clause, or about the muttered disapproval from the portraits on the walls, either. "I am not putting that thing on!"

"No? I assure you, every instructor at this school has worn it at some point in his or her life."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better? You've already been inside my head. I don't see why I've got to let something else go grubbing around in there."

Dumbledore smiled faintly. "Hardly that, John. Occlumency and the magic of the Sorting Hat are two entirely different things. I delved your memories, your feelings; the Hat, on the other hand, assesses character. A thing which-"

"If you tell me some shite about it being sorely lacking of late it'll go very hard with you, I'm warning you," Constantine snapped. "One invasion's enough. I'm not doing a second."

"I rather think you are, John."

"Oh? What're you going to do? Levitate it onto my head?"

"If I must, yes." Dumbledore peered over his glasses at the scowling Constantine. "What is the Muggle playwright's line? Meet it is I set it down that one may smile and smile, and be a villain? I saw many memories in your head, John. Many of them were of acts of the blackest sort of villainy."

"But you-"

Dumbledore raised a finger. "Many," he said. "Not all. I also saw the memories of a man striving to undo wrongs. It was that which gave me hope enough to hire you, and I will tell you now that whatever the Hat's verdict, I will not take back that decision."

"So why-"

"A man's motives may vary, even for the best of acts. I cannot afford to be generous and trusting any longer, Mr. Constantine. The students entrusted to my care, and the parents of those students, must be able to trust your character themselves. Or, barring that, they must at least know exactly what they are dealing with. My judgment has, of late, been questioned more than I would like." He nodded towards the Hat. "This has not."

Constantine eyed the thing with some distaste. Having other beings anywhere near his mind was about as appealing as being asked to use hallucinogens- he'd do it if he had to, but kicking and screaming all the way. "If it's really assessing character it'll likely decapitate me, you realise."

"Then I shall have the house-elves take extra care in cleaning out the carpet," said Dumbledore serenely. "Please, John, just put it on. It won't take long."

He sighed, reached for the ragged grey thing, and pulled it on.

"Aren't you a little old for this?" the Sorting Hat's voice said, speaking directly into John's thoughts. It had a barely repressed distaste to it, like a nun faced with a used condom.

"Dumbledore's idea, Hat. Not mine. Get on with it."

"Very well." And there was silence.

"Well?"

"I'm thinking," the Hat snapped. "It's not easy, you know."

"You did all those kids fast enough."

"Children are what I was made for. I sort them into Houses that best support their potential. Adults are harder."

John snorted.

"Well, they are. But if you insist..." It sighed. "Clever you may be, but not, I think, the sort to spend his days in study for study's sake. You're after the end result, eh? Not going to put in all that hard work just for the sake of saying you did it? So- not Ravenclaw."

"No arguments here, Hat."

"Good." Another pause. "There was a time when I'd have said Slytherin and not given it a second thought. A past full of fire and ambition, I see, and all that that implies. You would have been a stunning Slytherin once, you know... now? I think not. Experience has tempered that, blunted the desire to outshine the Morning Star. Gryffindor, now-" John didn't snort, though he wanted to. The Hat must've noticed; he heard a dry chuckle. "Oh, yes, Gryffindor. Daring, bravery, nerve... all qualities Godric Gryffindor held in highest esteem, and all qualities you possess in almost suicidal quantities. Although he would never have approved of what you've done with them. I should know."

John rubbed at his nose, wishing the damned thing would get the monologue over with.

"On the other hand, you do know the value of hard work and loyalty. And fairness- no, don't try to deny it. You may not play by the rules, but you know what they ought to be. Gets under your skin, doesn't it? People all puffed up with power and authority they haven't earned? People punished for asking the wrong question, or being in the way when someone else's enemy comes to visit? That burns, I can see it. Oh, my, yes- it even applies to you, I see, you've got things you won't speak of, but-"

"Watch it."

"Ah? Don't like being poked at? Well, I'm not surprised." It chuckled again. "But it's there. Oh, yes, it's there. The rake's got a sense of commitment, I see-"

"Bullshit, Hat. I do as I please."

"And what pleases you is to hold the hounds of Heaven and the wolves of Hell at bay, hmm? To bring the bastards to their knees for what they've done to you and yours? Oh, you've failed time and again and you've danced a merry jig around it, but in the end it's there right enough... 'he pits himself against both Heaven and the Pit because he is John Constantine, and because he is alive'. For so long as they exist, you'll be there to stop them, won't you?"

"Will you get on with it, you bloody sack of stitches?"

"All right, then. I'll make it quick. Not Ravenclaw, not Slytherin- Gryffindor would never forgive me if I put you into his House- but at least you do belong in- HUFFLEPUFF!"

The last word alone was spoken aloud. Ignoring the murmur that went up from the office portraits, John pulled the Hat off and tossed it roughly back into its niche. "Great. Sodding wonderful."

Dumbledore, damn him, was smiling. "Thank you," he said. "That will do nicely, I think."

"Yeah? Do I get a prize, at least?"

"The fact that I haven't reprimanded you for your language on school property doesn't qualify?"

John's first two fingers were halfway out before he even had time to think. "Hardly a student, are you, now?" he snapped, forcing himself not to finish the gesture.

Dumbledore laughed. "I shall send Winky up with your new tie directly," he said. "Good night, Mr. Constantine. That will be all."

Hellblazer: Hogwarts

(Currently a work in progress)

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